


Days To Come

by haleinedelail



Series: After Armageddon't: Life With Humanity [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale and Crowley in Love (Good Omens), Aziraphale learns about love, Aziraphale learns about sex, Crowley Cooks (Good Omens), Crowley and Aziraphale live together, F/M, Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, M/M, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:40:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21664606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haleinedelail/pseuds/haleinedelail
Summary: This story hinges on several truths:1.  Crowley and Aziraphale must become "a thing" after the Apocalypse.2.  Crowley is a hedonist, and Aziraphale is skittish (but sort of wishes he could be a hedonist too).3.  They enjoy "creature comforts" of Earth.4.  Gabriel is a prick.5.  Hastur and Beelzebub are assholes, and kind of clueless.6.  Agnes Nutter's second volume of prophecies is presumably lost forever.This story addresses all of the above.  The "real" story is about how to get Nutter's prophecies back from the fire.  But more importantly, it explores how Aziraphale begins to "come around" to Crowley's gentle(ish) urging.  He learns more about the creature comforts, about "seeking joy" with a lover, and explains his reticence to do so.  Lots of good, innuendo-laden talks.  No smut, but stay tuned for a sequel!
Relationships: Anathema Device & Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: After Armageddon't: Life With Humanity [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1610749
Comments: 42
Kudos: 115





	1. Sleep and Food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale enjoys sleep, and Crowley enjoys food. They enjoy each other. There's dreams, breakfast, and delightful domesticity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the idea of "creature comforts," and that they are part of what make us human, and make Crowley and Aziraphale unique supernatural beings. The things that make them feel good are being shared with one another, and this is, in their world at least, a step toward intimacy.

Aziraphale woke with a start.

He always woke with a start. Whenever he woke, which was almost never, it was with a start.

He'd been dreaming about an exquisite apple tart, with just the subtlest hint of Cayenne pepper added. He made a mental note to try it some time, if he ever again had a kitchen. The prospect of the sweet and the spicy was one that had been tried in myriad ways all throughout culinary history, but never quite like in his dream.

But once he'd made that particular mental note, he looked about and realised two things.

The first was, he was not at home, but that wasn't anything particularly new.

The second was, his friend was right: sleep was excellent.

It was not his first time sleeping, of course. He'd been knocking about Earth for six thousand years, of course he'd nodded off here and there when it had suited him. He's slept, well, numerous times with varying degrees of success and enjoyment.

But since he began staying here… oh, the waking was dreadfully difficult, and the sleeping had been surpassingly dulcet. For the first time ever, his eyes desired to be shut, his body insisted on being prone and at rest, and his brain desired to continue giving him weird visions of things he ought to try. It was like a heavy, pleasant, creamy fog, and it rather surprised him.

Just as he slid back into slumber, it struck him as remarkable that only a couple of evenings before, Crowley had declared that for the first time, he was having a craving. He'd enjoyed food before, of course, felt hunger on occasion, had eaten things just to keep up appearances, but last night, Crowley wanted General Tso's chicken. He'd had a hankering for it. So they'd gone to Aziraphale's favourite Chinese restaurant, interestingly, in New York City.

It was no longer any secret that the Angel Aziraphale, and his adversary/friend/confidant/ineffable life-presence, Crowley the Demon, were great fans of being on Earth. Only two weeks before, they had saved it, against every Divine Plan, Satanic Wish, and Ineffable Effort. Not only were they fans of the Earth, they were fans of humanity and all (well, most) of its trappings. And when it came to the human experience, the "creature comforts" of mortals, as they say, Aziraphale had always embraced food with a passion, and the same could be said for Crowley and sleep.

Aziraphale had no idea how long he'd been in the throes of re-sleeping when he heard the door open, and a familiar voice say, "Come on, angel. Breakfast."  
________________________________________

Yawning, and dressed in a fluffy tan bathrobe, Aziraphale wandered into the grey slate kitchen in Crowley's ultra-modern, semi-dark, very bizarre, very expensive, London flat.

"Have you made coffee?" he asked.

"Of course," Crowley muttered, sliding a spatula under a slice of French toast, and depositing it onto a plate. "What do you take me for, a barbarian? Sit, I'll get it."

Aziraphale sat down at the table, and watched his leather-trouser-clad friend pour black coffee into a white mug, and then smirk as he delivered it to the table. Something about this made Aziraphale shift in his chair, and break eye-contact, and it wasn't just Crowley's disturbing yellow, serpentine eyes… which Azirphale found not-at-all disturbing.

To distract himself, he took a sip of the coffee. It was hotter than he'd have made for himself, but the shock of it felt good. It was stronger than he'd have made for himself, but the bitterness took him by storm and made him feel alive. Aziraphale had been feeling groggy for the first time in his very, very long life, and with the coffee, it all seemed to fit. Caffeine infused his bloodstream, and he began to wake. It was as though the slumber and the beverage were all part of the same poignant sensory experience.

"Ooh, well," he cooed. "That's jolly bracing."

"It's Colombian," said Crowley, setting down a second cup of coffee on the table at the only other place-setting. "Tempted the bean harvesters myself. Got them to use illegal fertilisers."

"Was that when you were down there to…"

"…cover your drug-trafficker's change of heart? Yep."

"Nice work there, by the way."

"Shush," the demon admonished, then made his way across the room and back again, carrying two plates. He set one down in front of his angelic friend, and said, "I tried something new today, hope you like it."

"Apples!" Aziraphale exclaimed, delightedly. "You've added baked apples and a reduction syrup to French toast! Crowley, this is genius!"

"You haven't tasted it yet," Crowley lilted, sliding into his own chair.

Aziraphale was now excited, and he picked up his fork, and elegantly sampled the fare.

His eyes became as wide as saucers. "Is that… Cayenne pepper?"

"Why, yes, it is," Crowley said, smoothly, confidently, sitting back, draping one arm over his chair, and using the other to coolly sip his coffee. "No need to thank me… just tell me again that I'm a genius, and we'll leave it at that."

Aziraphale looked at him incredulously for so long, that the demon became uncomfortable.

"What?" he asked. "You don't like it? Bless it, I knew I should've left the culinary rubbish to you."

"No, no," Aziraphale assured his friend. "It's superb. It's…"

"Then eat it!"

There was a pause. "You know, you don't need to keep feeding me, Crowley," Aziraphale told him, again, for some reason, unable to make eye-contact.

"Of course I do," Crowley shrugged. "You're my guest. As long as you're crashing out in my spare room, I might as well make you comfy."

"Yes, well, I don't know how much longer I'll be, as you said, crashing out in your spare room," Aziraphale said. "My flat will be ready any day now."

"No it won't, but you can keep telling yourself that, if you like. Meantime, you do the sleeping, I'll do the cooking." Crowley had a way of being incredibly nice, while still sounding like a self-important, sardonic bastard.

Aziraphale tried again. "In any case, you don't have to sit and eat with me, if you don't feel like it. I know you have, you know…"

"Better things to do? Like what?"

"I'm sure I wouldn't know. You could have slept in."

"Bah. Eat your apples."

The two of them sat in silence for a few moments, and shared breakfast.

After a bit, Crowley asked, "So, speaking of crashing out in my spare room, did you sleep well?"

"Like a baby."

"It's good, isn't it?" Crowley asked, with a big smile.

"I'll admit, I may have previously underestimated its charms."

"You bloody love it, and you know it," Crowley spat, with a laugh. "Look, I'm not afraid to admit you were right about this food business. And look, here we are, sitting à table, together."

Aziraphale felt a frisson of something he could never quite identify when he felt it. Something about the way this conversation was going, something about continuing to follow Crowley's musings into the next phase… it was both a delicious Pandora's Box of sorts, but also terrifying.

The two faced each other now, the angel's expression rather stoic, the demon's one of whimsy and temptation.

"Yes, who knows? Perhaps one day, I'll be able to convince you to read a book," Aziraphale said, tightly, smiling in that charmingly uncomfortable way. "And you'll be able to give me that total makeover you've been banging on about for a hundred years."

"Two hundred. And yes, those are possibilities."

Suddenly, the angel sat up straight, and looked about. "Something's… happening."

"Besides the obvious?"

"There's a celestial intervention somewhere."

"Of course there is. It's you."

"No… it's this… beam. This beam of light that penetrates the Earth when the Divine powers are radiating their will. It's the way that the Higher-Ups get in touch with me. Only, they don't know where to find me!"

Crowley nearly spat out his coffee, laughing. "Oh, I reckon they do. They just can't penetrate here with their will, or whatever, 'cause it's all… demonic."

"I've got to go back to the book shop, Crowley."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love comments - it would absolutely make my day! Thank you for reading!


	2. The Bentley and the Book Shop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley proceed to the book shop to find out what sort of "celestial intervention" is occurring. But first, they bicker a bit about the refrigerator, and Crowley's driving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A good chunk of this chapter is fluff... it's supposed to be funny, awkward, squee-fodder, a bit romantic, etc. But its larger purpose is to give an atmosphere and stakes to the story, and make you care about their relationship (as if you didn't already!).
> 
> But there is some non-fluffy Crowley inner-monologue. So, enjoy!

Crowley and Aziraphale stepped off the lift in the lobby of Crowley's building, said hello to Mr. and Mrs. Meehan, who were out early walking Suzy Fly, their Papillon-Corgi mix.

In the previous week, in the corridor leading to both Crowley's and the Meehans' flats, Crowley had introduced them to Aziraphale, and the Meehans had been rather unduly happy their neighbour had found himself a 'flat mate.' When Aziraphale tried to tell them that he and Crowley were not flat mates, they apologised profusely, congratulated them, and then went on their way. Aziraphale had said, "Well, now. That was odd."

Crowley had rolled his eyes behind his dark glasses, but agreed, "Very odd." Even though they both knew it wasn't odd at all.

And today, Mrs. Meehan had said, "Good morning, you two," en route onto the lift, and something about the way she said you two sounded like a great big verbal wink.

"I'm not sure I like her," Aziraphale confessed as the lift door shut behind them.

"Remember that plate of soft peanut-butter balls I brought you a couple of years ago?" Crowley asked.

"Oh yes!

"She made them."

"Oh. Well, I take it back, then."

They walked outside and both turned left toward the street, and there, illegally parked but miraculously unticketed, was Crowley's black Bentley.

"Erm…" Aziraphale said, stopping at the kerb. "Let's take a taxi, shall we?"

"What? Why?"

"Or a bus, that would be fine, too."

"A bus? No, come on, don't be daft, angel, my car is right here."

"Yes, but... you're a fiend!"

"Erm, yeah… demon. Ranks of hell's minions, cast out of heaven, et cetera, et cetera. I thought you knew that."

"No, behind the wheel," Aziraphale said. Then an idea seemed to occur to him. "I suppose you could let me drive."

"No," Crowley whined, seemingly with his whole body. "You drive like a little old lady!"

"I do not!"

"You do! You sit too far forward, you grip the wheel like it's going to squirm away from you, and the look on your face is one of constant terror. Not to mention, you're slower than molasses, and the last time you drove my car, you knocked over a rubbish bin."

"We set it back upright again, and even separated the recycling for the gentleman. And didn't you feel good about doing that?"

"Are you kidding me? No!"

"It was improperly sorted!"

"Improperly sorted?" Crowley asked, rather incredulously, imitating his friend's posh accent. "You're improperly sorted."

"Says the man who stores pastrami in the crisper," the angel muttered.

"Really? Now? You want to get into this now?"

"And, I wasn't going to say anything, but you also have cilantro stored in the egg compartment, and last night, I was looking for an extra blanket, and found one in what was meant to be a sock drawer," Aziraphale complained, in a tone that seemed to ask, how can you live like that? "But don't worry – this morning, I returned it to the linens cupboard where it belongs."

Crowley stared at him for quite a few moments, without moving, then said, "Thanks ever so."

"So," Aziraphale said, straightening his jacket. He held out his hand. "Keys?"

"No!"

"Fine, I'm hailing a taxi," Aziraphale said, moving down the block a bit, craning his neck, seemingly searching for a black London cab.

"You don't know how to hail a taxi."

"I do so."

Crowley studied him for a few moments, then he took the five steps to close the space between them. Rather low, quietly, intimately, he asked, "Aziraphale, what are you afraid of? You know I've never hit anyone with the car, except Book Girl, and that was part of the Divine-Fucking-Plan. I won't let you be discorporated. It's not like we're going to run out of petrol or ultimately damage anything important. I can control my car, so when will you trust me?"

Aziraphale let his taxi-hailing hand drop back to his side. "I… I suppose it's not about trusting you, Crowley."

"Then what is this about?"

"I don't know, honestly. Just being silly," said the angel, his tight smile betraying some sort of emotional uncertainty. "I do trust you. I'm sorry. I don't know what's come over me… all right, then. You drive."

There was a long, pregnant pause, then Crowley sighed heavily and asked, "You want to drive?"

"I think it might be nice if we could switch off sometimes," Aziraphale answered, with a delighted smile.

Crowley gave a reluctant growl, then said, "Fine. Here," and handed over the keys.  
________________________________________

"It smells weird in here," Crowley said, wrinkling his nose as they entered the book shop. The Bentley was safely and legally parked behind the book shop, in the designated area. 

"It's the celestial beam," Aziraphale told him. "It's definitely been here. Oh, drat. What do they want now? I thought we'd effectively got them to…"

"Bugger off? Yeah. I thought so too," Crowley muttered, looking about the place as though an archangel might be lurking behind the stacks. "I mean, could they have left a message?"

Aziraphale looked at him with utter tedium. "Crowley, it's a celestial beam from the seat of the Almighty, not a phone call from someone's gran."

"I've got an answerphone," the demon reminded him, barely moving his lips, and now sauntering away, practically positive that something angelic, other than Aziraphale, was hiding somewhere in the shop.

"I'm afraid I'll have to call them back," said the angel.

"Ooh, angelic voodoo. Nice."

"Yes, but I'm afraid that since the fire, I'm rather skittish about candles. I've stowed them away in a cabinet upstairs for safe-keeping."

"Okay, let's go get them. It'll give us a chance to see how poorly your flat's remodel is coming along," Crowley suggested, with a sardonic grin.

They filed into the back of the shop, where there was an old, charmingly plain, refinished staircase that led to Aziraphale's actual home, above the book store. Needless to say, the angel did not desire nor require the luxury of a large, trendy flat in central London, with a view of the Thames and Parliament.

Aziraphale's flat was quite simple: a bed, bureau and wardrobe, two armchairs, a coffee table, and a small kitchen, off to the side. The décor, of course, ran to Victorian, but Crowley found himself continually surprised at the little bits of modern chic that found their way in. He had admired the round glass and brass chandelier ever since Aziraphale had put it in. And the bed was not the monstrous, ornate four-poster that one might imagine. In fact, its posts were made of black wrought-iron, and each one dipped down once, and they met each other above in a circular pattern. It was reminiscent of a circus tent, with no canvas. It was stylish, and Crowley liked it, but it had occurred to him to wonder why the heaven Aziraphale needed it. Until very recently, he'd only slept once every few decades.

The two of them stepped inside the flat, and were surprised at how not-in-shambles the place was.

"Oh. This is homey. Again," mused Crowley.

When last they'd been here, gathering the angel's things for what was to be "a few more nights" (after the initial three nights) in Crowley's spare room, the contractors had been in. All the furniture was covered with tarps, white dust was falling everywhere, and the floor paneling had been ripped up. Now, the furniture was still covered, but the dust was more or less gone, and the floor was done. The new light-coloured parquet gleamed like gold.

"Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no," Aziraphale fretted. "This isn't right at all."

"What's not? I think it looks rather good."

"The parquet floor," he whined. "This is the wrong shade of stain."

"The wrong shade of stain?"

"Yes," sighed Aziraphale.

"Let me guess," Crowley sighed. "It's not precisely as it was… before."

"Adam's a good lad, and he meant well, but say what you will, he didn't restore everythingto its full glory after saving the world."

"He wasn't meant to."

"Well, I don't like it."

It was in Crowley's nature to argue. He would have liked to insist that his friend was being overly fussy, and there was no good reason why the parquet had to be exactly the same as before Adam Young had hit reset. And even if there were a good reason, Aziraphale could just miracle them back the way he wanted them. Though, he knew that his friend didn't fancy doing "frivolous" miracles, even when no-one was watching.

After the apocalypse had been averted, even Crowley himself had noticed that the armchairs were all wrong, given that Aziraphale's originals had been green velvet, and these were red suede. He had also noticed that the wood paneling on the wall was light brown instead of white, and that the fireplace had a circa-1880 woodburning stove, where one hadn't been before. But none of it really mattered, because it was all reverent, it was all Victorian, it was all very Aziraphale.

But Crowley saw the "remodel" for what it was: an excuse for Aziraphale to do a lot more sleeping, and Crowley to do a lot more eating. He was not about to protest. And since Aziraphale had been living in this little ruse, they had worked up to properly sharing food, at home, at Crowley's behest. Likely one day, they'd work up to sharing sleep… but it would have to be at Aziraphale's behest, because the angel would not be pushed.

Crowley had had to learn that, rather the hard way. He could be as audacious as he liked – Aziraphale was accustomed to Crowley being all noisy and biting and flirty and demonic, and he definitely liked it. But ultimately, Aziraphale was good, and beatific, and scrupulous, so coercion didn't sit well with him, no matter how much he actually wanted to be coerced.

And so, there was patience. If a pair of six-thousand-year-old supernatural beings couldn't be patient, then who could?

Yesterday, Aziraphale had announced that he was keen on updating his kitchen while he was at it, and any minute now, he'd say that the contractor was just going to have to re-lay the parquet. Those two things would require weeks, possibly months worth of work…

"Well, the contractor is just going to have to re-lay the parquet," Aziraphale tutted.

Crowley smiled. "You don't say. Another few days at my place, then?"

"I'm afraid so," Aziraphale sighed. "Oh, I do hope it's no bother, Crowley."

"It's no bother, Aziraphale. It'll give you time to rearrange my fridge."

And that was when they heard the front door of the book shop open.

"Would you mind tending to that?" Aziraphale asked. "I'm going to look for my candles. And I seem to have misplaced my matches."

"Sure," Crowley said, and he walked down the stairs to see who the customer was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love comments - they are the heart and soul of a writer! Please let me know your thoughts! Thank you for reading.


	3. Gabriel and the Greater Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit from an old enemy (frenemy?) who puts a big bee in Aziraphale's book-loving bonnet.

"Gabriel," Crowley said, drawing out the syllables. He was addressing the stiff-looking man in the light blue suit, now standing in the centre of Aziraphale's book shop.

"Crowley," Gabriel said, crisply. "What are you doing here?"

"Me? Oh, I just popped in for a Big Mac and a cappuccino."

Gabriel cleared his throat, and said, "As you like."

Crowley smiled. "Oh, come on. Don't act like you're all surprised and scandalised."

Gabriel smiled back, totally mirthlessly, and his shocking blue eyes seemed to gleam with anger. "I suppose I'm not."

"But I have to admit, I'm a bit nonplussed to see you," Crowley said. "Aren't you the one who told Aziraphale to, what was it? Shut his stupid mouth, and die already?"

"Ah, he told you about our little debacle."

"Of course he did."

"I did say that, yes," Gabriel admitted, with a smirk.

"Not very archangelic of you."

"I will not apologise for doing the Almighty's will," Gabriel spat. "Come to think of it, I don't converse with demons, so just tell me where your friend is, because the sooner I can speak to him, the sooner I can get the heaven out of here."

"And come to think of it, I don't converse with bigots, so I suppose it's all for the best. Aziraphale is upstairs, trying to find candles so he can contact you lot," Crowley told him. "He felt you calling. He'll be along in a mo'."

Gabriel gave a terse smile, and then pretended to look about the book shop. Crowley made absolutely no show of trying to mitigate the awkwardness, and actually just stood, grinning at the archangel, watching him browse.

"Gabriel," Aziraphale's voice sang a couple of minutes later, as he reached the bottom of the stairs, and saw who the visitor was.

"Aziraphale," Gabriel said, again, rather crisply.

"Well, fancy seeing you…"

"I've come on official business, I don't have time to chat."

"Erm… all right. But I'm rather surprised to see you. I didn't think I was still on the payroll, as it were."

"Oh, you're not. You're still on the Almighty's shit list, but we have a task that needs doing, and She is, after all, a benevolent being," Gabriel told him, bitterly.

"The Almighty has a shit list?" Crowley asked.

"A fairly long one, as you well know, Crowley," said Gabriel.

"Are archangels even allowed to say things like shit list?" the demon wondered aloud.

"Can you get rid of him?" Gabriel asked Aziraphale. "This is official business, and it might not be the worst idea in the world if one of hell's minions didn't hear every word we said."

Aziraphale cleared his throat, and straightened his jacket. "I'm sorry Gabriel. Whatever you say to me, you can say to Crowley."

Gabriel's eyebrows shot up, and he looked at Crowley, who smiled and waved. "Oh really, now?" he said. "What are you, an old married couple? You know what… don't bother answering."

"I..." Aziraphale began.

Gabriel ploughed right through. "Look, I would never speak for the Almighty unless She asked me to, so you can believe me when I say, this might be a good way to begin getting back in Her good graces. Need I remind you that you are, for all intents and purposes, a fallen angel? It's basically because of some clerical confusion that you weren't completely cast out and flung under the boot of Satan."

Aziraphale looked at Gabriel impassively. "You can't intimidate me, Gabriel. Not anymore. Fix the confusion. Tell Her everything. Have me cast out. Make me a demon, if you must."

Crowley burst out laughing, rather proud of his friend.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Gabriel snarled.

"I can think of worse things," Aziraphale lilted calmly, not unconscious of the fact that Gabriel believed there was a chance that Aziraphale was already halfway to demonhood anyhow, given how badly awry heaven's little 'hellfire' revenge had gone. "Now, did you come to threaten me, or did you come on an errand for the Almighty? Are you going to actually try to do your job, or just stand there betraying your bitterness?"

Crowley beamed inside, and relished watching Gabriel fume.

The archangel took a few moments to gather himself, and said, "We have reason to believe that Agnes Nutter may have written another book of prophecy – a second installment, if you will. We need you to track it down."

Aziraphale was utterly stunned. He took a few steps toward Gabriel, and asked, "Another book of prophecy? How do you know?"

"How do we know anything? We're heaven. We've literally got God on our side," Gabriel told him. "Which is why, we need to know what's in that book. Given the accuracy of the original volume and how all that turned out, the Almighty is very keen to make sure that no other miscalculations occur, and that the very best personnel are put on the case, should the need arise."

"Okay, okay, so, let's get our heads round this," Crowley cut in. "Two weeks ago, you tried to burn him in literal fire from the pits of deepest hell, and today you want him to help you?"

"That's right," said Gabriel.

"And you're presenting this as a way for Aziraphale to get back in, with your boss."

"Partly."

"And it has nothing to do with the fact that he's the only angel who's lived on Earth for all six thousand years, and therefore is the only one with any sense of what it would take to track down that book, and that he's clearly, well… Book Dude."

"We admit, Aziraphale has certain…"

"Oh, you've got a lot of nerve, Archangel Fucking Gabriel!" Crowley laughed. "You can't do it yourself because you don't have the mad skillz that my friend here has, so you're going to threaten him, use him to get hold of the book, and then use the book to find out, among other things, if and when you lot should try again to obliterate him!"

"It's all right Crowley, I'll do it," said Aziraphale rather quietly.

"What?" the demon asked, totally incredulous. "Are you mad?"

"No, I'm not," Aziraphale said. "I don't like the idea of helping Gabriel any more than you do, but the fact is, not it's not Gabriel asking, it's the Almighty. And in spite of myself, I don't fancy disappointing Her again. But even more importantly, if She wants it found, it's most probably for the greater good."

"So you're just going to do it? Go on an insane hunt for some book that may or may not exist, and then hand it over to Frankenstein's Monster here?" Crowley asked Aziraphale, gesturing toward Gabriel.

"Yes," said the angel. "Because one way or the other, I would think that the volume needs locating. Be it for Her purposes, or ours, or someone else's. Imagine if it fell into the wrong hands."

"Speaking of the wrong hands, Aziraphale," Gabriel said. "You are not to peek at the prophecies once the text is found. That is for the eyes of Higher-Ups only."

"Quite," said Aziraphale. "How very sensible. Wouldn't want to show any trust in the one who's doing the difficult bits, would we?"

"Nope," Gabriel said, with finality.

"You're a right git, you know that?" Crowley grumbled at Gabriel.

"Coming from you, I'll take that as a compliment," Gabriel said, turning for the door. "I'll be in touch in a few days to see how things are going."

"Make no mistake, Gabriel," Aziraphale said, quite seriously, toning down his usual upright dandy mannerism, for the time being. "I'm doing this for the greater good. I'm not doing it so that I can come back into the fold. I've no need of the fold."

Gabriel nodded, surprisingly amiably, then said, "Well, then, we'll just call this an independent contracting arrangement. Hopefully, some good will come of it for everyone involved. Maybe even Crowley. Good day, gentlemen."

With that, the Archangel Gabriel walked out of the book store, and shut the door behind him.

"Oh, come on!" Crowley growled once Gabriel was out the door, twisting his whole, thin body. "You're really going to do this?"

"It appears as though I am."

"You might be writing your own death warrant, or prison sentence, or worse," said Crowley.

"I know, but it's the right thing to do. If Agnes Nutter's written a second book, it would be a crime against posterity not to know its whereabouts. And who better to keep it safe than God Herself?"

"This is mental."

"One good thing about all this, it'll get me out of your hair for a while," Aziraphale said curtly, not really making eye-contact.

"Oh, the heaven it will," Crowley argued. "I'm not letting you do this alone."

"You aren't?"

"No! Seriously? You think I'd let you go out and do an errand for that prat, without keeping an eye on you? It could be a test! A trap! It could be dangerous, even if it isn't a trap. We have no idea where this book is – what if it's locked in a vault in the Tower of London or something, along with the crown jewels? Someone's going to have to hold your hand so you don't get your arse kicked by the Queen's Guard."

"Crowley, you're being ridiculous. I can just miracle…"

"But you won't," the demon interrupted. "I know you too well. You'll get into a jam, you'll get all proper and jumpy and dodgy, and wind up in some kind of terrorism containment facility, and I'll have to get you out, and then wind up on a list, and I'll have to change my name…"

"Oh, honestly," the angel complained.

"Say what you like," Crowley said, shaking his head. "I'm coming with you."

And Aziraphale made no more protestations. Heaven knows why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel is so much fun to write for! He's such an asshole, and in my opinion, in the series, he's funny on-sight!
> 
> I would appreciate any comments you have! It will motivate me to keep posting! Honestly, it will! Thank you so much for reading. :-)


	4. Knocking and Knocking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale comes face-to-face with one aspect of the Human Experience that he just doesn't get. Yet. And he asks Crowley a question he's presumably always wanted to ask... and isn't sure he likes the answer.

"Okay," said Crowley, back behind the wheel of his Bentley, driving very rapidly west, out of Soho. "Where do we start? Tadfield? Book Girl?"

"Her name is Anathema Device," Aziraphale scolded. "And yes, I think that would be the most logical thing, don't you?"

"The most logical thing would be to tell Gabriel to go jump in a big flaming sulfur lake, but you've not given me that option, so here we are. Tadfield it is."

"What if she doesn't know where the book is? What then?"

"Dunno," Crowley said. "Apparently the Archangel Michael keeps surveillance records. You could pawn the job off on her."

"Out of the question," Aziraphale dismissed.

"Well, you asked."

After that, the two of them sat in silence for a few minutes, while they left London. And the angel noticed not long after getting on the road that he had had no desire to grip the door handle or phantom-slam his feet into the floor, testing the imaginary brake. If he wasn't   
mistaken, Crowley was slowing down.

He looked out the window, and found the courage to say, "It's a lovely drive," once they'd reached a bit of greenery in the English countryside.

"Yes, it is," Crowley agreed, utterly without noticing the landscape.  
________________________________________

Crowley perfectly remembered the route to Jasmine Cottage, which was where they had dropped off Anathema when they'd first met her, and where, presumably, she resided.

There was no bell, so Aziraphale knocked on the front door. They waited. He tried again. They waited.

"Well, perhaps she's not in," Aziraphale said to his friend. "Should we leave a note?"

"You try again, I'm going to go round back, just in case," Crowley said. "Knocking a bit harder wouldn't kill you, you know. Quit being so damn polite."

Aziraphale tried a third time, attempting, as the demon had said, to knock a bit harder. He waited; still no answer. Exasperated, he tried a fourth (and what he decided would be a final) time. This was when his knuckles finally made firm enough contact with the wood, to resound in a meaningful way… if Miss Device was in, she was sure to have heard it!

But halfway through the four sharp, hard raps, Crowley came jogging back round the way he'd gone. "No, no, no, no! Stop knocking! We'll come back later! Let's go!"

"Well, all right," said Aziraphale, disappointedly. "She's clearly not in anyway."

"Yes she is, yes she is, they both are," Crowley said very quickly, then grabbed his friend by the arm, and attempted to drag him back to the Bentley.

"She's in? What do you mean they both are?" Aziraphale asked, confusedly, as he was being pulled down the front stoop.

And that was when the front door of Jasmine Cottage opened, and there stood a man. He was as tall and thin as Crowley, but with none of the demon's cool.

Although, the man had a yellow floral sheet wrapped around his waist, no shirt, his hair was in shambles, and he was breathing raggedly.

That was pretty cool.

"Oh, hello," said Aziraphale.

"Oh! It's you! And you!" said the man, pointing at each of them in sequence.

"Yes, I'm Aziraphale, and this is Crowley. And you are… sorry, I know you're the chap who broke the computers, but I don't believe I caught your name before."

"It.. it's Newt. Newton Pulsifer."

"Well, dear man, we're so sorry to have, er… got you out of the shower," Aziraphale said, looking the young man over. "But in future, you might want to try a towel, or something else made of terrycloth, as a bedsheet is not the best way to…"

"What's going on?" asked a female voice. A moment later, Anathema Device appeared behind Newt. Her hair was in a similar state, as was her breathing, and the only thing she was wearing was what Crowley realised was probably Pulsifer's shirt. Inside-out. Aziraphale, of course, realised nothing.

"Oh, hello, lovely Anathema," said the angel. "Do you remember us?"

"'Course they do, 'course they remember us," Crowley said quickly, as though speaking through a machine gun. "We're the two blokes who helped them avert the apocalypse two weeks ago – who could forget a thing like that? Now, listen, you two, we're going to be down at the village pub, if you'd like to have a chat about, oh, say, books, ancestors, celestial beings, stuff like that."

"Wait… what?" Anathema asked. "Are you serious?"

"Yes, quite so…" said Aziraphale.

"Yes, but it's not time sensitive, so, you know… don't rush. Honestly, don't rush, okay? Human life is too short to rush through these things, so… well, come on, Aziraphale. Let's let the nice people finish their shower."

"The village pub?" Aziraphale asked, incredulously.

"Yes, the village pub! Get in the bloody car!" the demon growled at him, manhandling him down the path to the little gate.  
Newt and Anathema just watched them with fascination.

Once inside the car, Crowley started it up, and peeled away from Jasmine Cottage. He then said, "Sorry to have got you out of the shower? In future you might want to try terrycloth? Honestly, Aziraphale, are you messing with all of us, or are you really this... green?"

"What the dev…" he began. "What are you talking about?"

"Ugh! There was a reason I told you not to knock on the door! Once I went round back, I could hear them!"

"Hear them…?"

"Hear them! You know!"

"No! Clearly I don't!"

Crowley made a show of exhaling hard, as though the whole damned conversation were paining him. "I heard banging. Moaning. The squeaking of bedsprings coming from an upstairs room. Are you there yet, you celestial numbskull?"

"Oh!" Aziraphale said, surprised, and having suddenly got there. "Oh dear. What've we done?"

"Disrupted a mighty good shag, is what it sounded like," Crowley said. "Can't stand there on the porch and ask them about literature when they've been interrupted doing that."

"No, I suppose not."

"Well, good for them I say. And good for us. They can finish up, and we can have a drink or two. All of us will be much happier and more amiable when we finally do talk later, eh?"

"Indeed," Aziraphale said, now with his tight smile, graduating to a flat, horrified stare.  
________________________________________

The angel and the demon sat at a table for four, waiting to see the flushed faces of Anathema Device, and probably Newton Pulsifer as well. Crowley was well into the Scotch, but Aziraphale had not touched the glass of wine he'd ordered. He hadn't even bothered transforming it into a Châteauneuf du Pape.

"What's with you?" Crowley asked, taking a not-so-small sip from his glass. "Is this book business worrying you that much? Because frankly, I tried to warn you about this rubbish in London, but you were all 'posterity demands it!' and 'I'm Book Dude!'"

Aziraphale frowned a bit. "I never said I was Book Dude. You said that. And it was Gabriel who exploited it, frankly. I was powerless to stop it. So don't tell me I call myself Book Dude."

Crowley stared at him for a few moments, jaw somewhat agape. "Anyone ever tell you you're a bit pedantic?"

"Thanks for noticing," Aziraphale said. "It's only been six thousand years."

"And counting," Crowley said with a flirty smile, knocking his glass gently against the untouched wine, then taking another swig.

Aziraphale had something on his mind, and he wondered if he shouldn't get a little drunk before broaching the subject. But he found himself frozen. The only thing left to do was…

"Crowley?"

"Yes?"

"Have you…"

Aziraphale had begun a question, but then looked up at his friend across the table, and lost his nerve. Something in the fiery demeanour, the black clothing, the red hair and dark glasses made him back down. It was not an unpleasant thing to look at – quite the contrary – but just now, Crowley's very existence was making him nervous.

"Have I what?" Crowley asked.

"Nothing. Forget I said anything."

"Okay," Crowley conceded. But he knew his friend all too well, and knew this wasn't over.

And this was something about what they'd seen at Anathema's place. It was clear that Aziraphale had been rattled by it - he'd barely said a word since he'd learned the entertaining truth of what they'd walked into at Jasmine Cottage. Crowley had a guess about what was coming, but as usual, he was not going to push.

But he knew he didn't need to. And indeed, within a few moments, "Crowley?"

"Yes?"

"We're two celestial beings – well, supernatural, anyway."

"Yes. I should have thought that was a well-established fact."

"It is. But… we've both been issued bodies. We've both been granted corporeal form for our tenure on Earth. And even though you're a demon and have your vulnerabilities to holy water, consecrated ground and the like, and I have my vulnerabilities to fire and chaos, the bodies work in basically the same way, don't they?"

"I suppose so, on a basic level."

"We can feel hot, cold. We cry, and we bleed. We feel pain and pleasure. We both eat and sleep and take bodily enjoyment from that, even though we don't need any of it to survive. Plus, we can do magic, miracles, influence our immediate surroundings, et cetera."

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

"I was just wondering if you feel the same things that I feel, and have the same corporeal experience."

"We're analogous beings, one heavenly, one… anti-heavenly. So, yes. Two sides of the same coin, if you like."

"Oh, good. That makes the question more relevant, and the answer easier for me to understand. Crowley, there's something I've been wanting to ask you."

Crowley would have liked, at this point, to scream, "Well, that's bloody obvious! Would you just come out with it already?" but he did not. Every day with Aziraphale was an exercise in restraint, for so many reasons.

He had an idea that he probably should sober up for this chat, and so he did. The Scotch made its way magically back into the bottle, and Crowley felt suddenly much more in-the-moment.

"Shoot," he said.

Aziraphale took a deep breath. "When we were at Jasmine Cottage, and you heard what you heard in the back garden, and then we saw what we saw… the half-nudity, the bedsheet, and… actually, I'm curious, is the messy hair a relevant part of that little tableau, as well?"

"Yep."

Aziraphale nodded, acknowledging this. "But in truth, I didn't understand any of it until you pointed it out. It's not part of my corporeal experience. And so, Crowley, it begs the question, have you…" Aziraphale began. "Have you, in your six thousand years of corporeal form, for whatever reason, in whatever time, with whatever subject of…"

"Yes."

Aziraphale stopped short. "You didn't let me finish my question."

"You were taking forever, angel, and for us, that's saying something. I know what you're asking, and the answer is… yes."

"Yes."

"Yes," Crowley repeated.

A few moments passed, and then Aziraphale suddenly realised he'd been holding his breath, and he exhaled hard, with an almost instinctive, "Oh dear." Then, "I'll need to catch my breath for a mo'."

"Are you surprised?"

"Actually, I'm not.

"It's all part of the temptation game, angel. It's become less and less of a thing as society has less and less of a stick up its arse about it, and truth be told, it's been since 1941…"

"No need to explain, Crowley. Honestly, if you'd said no, it wouldn't make any sense. You're a demon, after all."

"Yes, I am."

"I mean, I'd sort of been hoping you would say that your corporeal experience has been the same as mine in every way except the bit about the holy water and the consecrated ground, but…" he trailed off. Then he seemed to recover, and he cleared his throat and said, "Well, it just makes me feel as though I'm on the back foot. At a professional disadvantage, if you will."

"A professional disadvantage?" asked the demon, sardonically. "That's the explanation we're going with?"

"Yes, I mean, if you've experienced carnal pleasures, you must understand the human experience, and their motivations, better than I."

"Must I?"

"Yes," Aziraphale confirmed.

"Hm," Crowley said, sipping Scotch again, with a lazy grin, knowing full well that neither of them had a profession at which to be disadvantaged anymore.

And that was when Anathema Device and Newton Pulsifer darkened the pub's door, and this conversation was cut short.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have read a few Good Omens fics in which Crowley and Aziraphale are both equally inexperienced in the matters of (ahem) the flesh. I just don't buy that. A guy who has spent six millennia tempting humans, literally talking them into indulging themselves... are we really saying he's never used himself as the indulgence? That it's all been about tempting farmers into stealing sheep? Never disgraced an archbishop with a kiss and cuddle when he was in a bad mood and/or under orders? He loves his angel, of course, but he's had a job to do, damn it!
> 
> Anyway, I would love to know your thoughts. I've had precious few comments... I languish without them. Either way, thank you for reading, and I hope you'll continue to follow this story!


	5. Great Revelations and Burning Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley learn about what really happened to Agnes Nutter's second volume of prophecies. There is despair... but might there also be hope?

Anathema Device was an intense person. She had had no choice but to be so, given her family's legacy and burden. Crowley had noticed this before, but Aziraphale had merely found her scrupulously charming. Or charmingly scrupulous, or both.

Newton Pulsifer went to the bar, as she slid into the chair beside Aziraphale. Without even saying hello, she asked them, intensely, "What's going on? Did it not take?"

"Did what not take what?" asked Crowley.

"The apocalypse. Averting it. Did it not take?"

"Oh, no," Aziraphale said, easily, trying to reassure her. "The apocalypse is still well and truly averted, don't worry. No, we're here for a different reason."

"Well, what is it?"

"We were visited this morning by the Archangel Gabriel," said Aziraphale. "He's put me to a task, even though I don't really work for that side anymore."

"You mean you're…" she asked, pointing at Crowley, and looking at Aziraphale incredulously.

"A demon? No," said the angel. "I'm still an angel, but I'm not on heaven's payroll any longer."

"Wow," she said, sitting back in her chair. "There's a sentence I never thought I'd hear said in earnest."

"As it happens, I'm not on hell's either," Crowley said. "Not that you asked."

"Anyway," Aziraphale continued. "Gabriel informed us that the Almighty suspects that your great, great, great… your ancestor, Agnes Nutter, may have written a second volume. What do they call that these days? A sequel?"

"Oh," Anathema said, uneasily. "Yes, she did."

"She did?" Aziraphale asked, eyes wide, voice wispy, fascination obvious. "That's extraordinary! Why didn't I know about it?"

"More to the point," Crowley interrupted. "Why didn't the Almighty know about it?"

"Well, that I can't answer," Anathema said to Crowley. Then she turned back to Aziraphale. "But you probably didn't know about it because it was never published."

"Really!" Aziraphale exclaimed with the same delighted smile.

"Really what?" Newt asked, setting a beer and a cup of chamomile tea on the table, taking the former for himself, and the seat beside Crowley.

"Really, Agnes' second book was never published," Anathema told him, bringing him up-to-date. "He says God is looking for it."

"She understandably wants to know what's in it," Aziraphale said. "Given what happened, you know… out there. Two weeks ago. An unmitigated disaster from Her point of view, you understand."

"Her point of view?" Newt asked. "Her?"

"Er, yes," Aziraphale said. "She's a she. Common misconception. Actually, She doesn't mind the misconception – She thinks it gives Her an edge."

"Why are you here looking for it, if you're not on Her payroll any longer?" Anathema wanted to know.

"An excellent, excellent question, my girl!" Crowley practically shouted, then clinked his glass against Anathema's teacup and took a sip. "Excellent."

Aziraphale ignored his companion and said, "Gabriel came to me because I'm rather better-versed in the original volume than anyone in heaven, and also, I'm… well…"

"Book Dude," Crowley finished.

"Would you stop saying that? I find it vulgar," Aziraphale whispered. Then, to Anathema, he admitted, "But… it's not untrue. I've spent thousands of years chasing tomes across the globe, and I've never failed myself. Thanks, in part, to you. I'm afraid my reputation in heaven, and elsewhere, is as… Book Dude."

"There are worse reputations to have," Newt offered. "I'm the guy who breaks stuff."

Aziraphale continued, "I still believe in the basic goodness of the Almighty, and in Her wisdom – though I clearly don't find it infallible, and if I were Her, I would definitely have hired a cleverer inner-circle, but that's neither here nor there. Anyhow, if She says it needs to be found, it needs to be found. Even if it means bad things for me."

Crowley made an exasperated, "Pfffff," noise, in response.

"But I also think it's an errand demanded by posterity," the angel went on. "In all of human history, there has been exactly one accurate book of prophecy, and its predictions ended two weeks ago. And now we're told, the author wrote another! Even if another Armageddon is not in the cards, it would be a disgrace to Mistress Nutter and her considerable talents if the rest of what she knew went unknown."

Anathema and Newt looked at each other meaningfully.

"You tell them, I can't do it," she said to him.

"I can't either!" he protested.

"Tell us what?" Crowley asked, leaning on his forearms now, very interested.

"It's your fault," she said, still to her sudden, and still very surprised, boyfriend. "You're the one who talked me into doing it!"

"Doing what?" Aziraphale asked, beginning to get nervous. He put on his tight smile, the sort he wore when he knew something messed-up was coming, but he wasn't sure yet how else to handle it. "What's this about? You've confirmed the existence of the volume. Are you saying you know its whereabouts? That you've put it in a safety-deposit box, and you wear the key around your neck?"

"You wanted to do it! I just gave you a push!" Newt pointed out to Anathema.

"Oh, is this about… something else?" Aziraphale asked, now looking at Crowley for help.

"No, this is about the book," the demon said. "One of you needs to tell us what's become of Agnes' second book, or so help me, I will banish you both to an eternity in rural Tunisia, without a camel. Now, stop mucking us about, and talk!"

"She burned it," Newt said simply, pointing a finger, literally, at Anathema.

"He made me!" Anathema retorted.

"You… burned it?" Aziraphale asked, his voice wispy now for a different reason.

"Yes," Anathema said. Then she sighed. "I'm being unfair. Newt didn't make me burn it. He's right – I wanted to burn it. I knew I needed to, for my own sanity. He just gave me permission. He confirmed that it was the right thing for me."

"But that means it's lost," Aziraphale said. "Oh, dear. All of that wisdom, all of that future…"

His face melted into an expression that gave Crowley a strong pang, a bit of a punch to the gut. He'd seen that look on his friend's face before. 

"We're sorry," Newt said lamely.

Crowley sat up straight. "Are you certain you burned it?"

"Of course I'm certain," Anathema snapped. "You think I don't know when I've set an important historical document on fire in a field?"

"What field? Crowley asked.

"The one across from my house," she said. "It's a common area that connects about a dozen houses and their gardens. Why?"

"When did you do it?"

"Sunday," she told him, looking at him suspiciously. "You know… two weeks ago. The day after. Why?"

"What time?"

"I don't know! Before lunch! And I'm going to ask you why one more time, and this time, you're going to tell me why!"

"Come on, angel, we've got to go," Crowley said, standing up and heading for the door.

"Oh, erm… I guess we're going?" Aziraphale said to the other two at the table. "Lovely to see you again."

With that, he followed the demon out the door, leaving Anathema and Newt to gape after them."  
________________________________________

Back in the Bentley, Crowley was doing his usual thing, though somewhat more carefully, for Aziraphale's sake.

"Crowley, you're headed in the wrong direction. You're going west – London is east of here."

"Let me ask you something," Crowley said, seemingly fuming. "And be honest, okay? Can you do that? Be totally honest with me?"

"Yes, I think I can."

"Because if I'm going to go any further with this Nutter business, I'm going to need some reassurance from you."

"How can we go any further?" Aziraphale wondered. "The book is gone."

"Just… go with me on this."

"All right, then, what is it you need to know?"

"Tell me the first answer that comes to mind – don't even think about it, okay?"

"I'll try."

"Why was it so important that we find that book?"

Aziraphale paused, with his hands tightly in his lap. Crowley could hear the in-and-out breath, and glanced over to see that terribly pained expression cross his features once again.

"Because it contains the only information that is to be had, about the world, and time, the convergence of events, war, peace, and ineffable, as of now," Aziraphale said, sounding as though he might burst from emotion. "Not to mention the utter extraordinariness of Mistress Nutter herself! What a talented, insightful, generous woman! History and posterity and human knowledge are truly incomplete, now her volume is lost."

"So the primary reason you wanted to find it was a bunch of squishy Aziraphalian reasons."

"Aziraphalian?"

"Yeah, it's a thing. It's a word I made up. An adjective, in fact. Answer the question."

"My reasons are primarily… erm, Aziraphalian, as opposed to…"

"…doing it for Gabriel, or for God, or to get your job back, or some bullshit like that? You're allowing yourself to be cowed and mocked and threatened by a fucking Archangel who tried to burn you with hellfire, who is clueless about the actual world, and about you, because in your heart, in your gut, you feel it's right?"

"Yes."

"You desperately would have loved to find that book."

"Yes!"

"All right then. I have something to tell you, Aziraphale."


	6. Posterity and the Ruse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anathema has confessed that Agnes Nutter's second volume has been burned... how on Earth are our ineffable heroes supposed to get it? Crowley proposes a solution. It's risky, but it's worth it for the sake of... (ahem) Posterity.
> 
> Also, Crowley visits Hell, and we find out what sorts of things Beelzebub and company have been up to since they agreed to leave Crowley alone.

Crowley was agitated, that much was clear, but as of yet, Aziraphale couldn't see why.

"So, the primary reason you wanted to find it was a bunch of squishy Aziraphalian reasons. You're allowing yourself to be cowed and mocked and threatened by a fucking Archangel who tried to burn you with hellfire, who is clueless about the actual world, and about you, because in your heart, in your gut, you feel it's right?"

"Yes."

"You desperately would have loved to find that book."

"Yes!"

"All right then. I have something to tell you, Aziraphale."

"What is it?"

The demon sighed. "I can manipulate time. Hell can, I mean."

"I knew that. I've seen you do it."

"No, you've seen me stop time before," Crowley said. "But if I wanted to, I could fold it back on itself and screw with events."

"You could?"

"Well, technically, Beelzebub could. It's her power. She figured out how to do it, and how to hide it from the Almighty, during Antiquity, when all the alchemists were doing weird stuff along ley lines and whatnot. But she's been known to lend it out to operatives, for various… missions."

"Well, that's diabolical!"

"Erm, hello?"

"Turning back time, and trifling with what's already been, when things have been put in place, for better or for worse… that's…"

"Extremely dangerous," Crowley said, nodding. "Yeah, even we know that. Time paradoxes can destroy the universe. But as you may have heard: we're meant to be evil."

"This is… this is…"

"This is worse than knowing about the shagging?"

"What?"

"Look, honestly, angel, we haven't used it much – just once in a while to cause true, unholy havoc. During the Crusades, the Holocaust, the Black Plague - have I ever told you how much I hated the fourteenth century? Oh, and Khmer Rouge. All of that stuff was basically human-inspired, but some of my nastier colleagues used time loops to really muck things up."

"Dear me. Oh, Crowley, you're not suggesting that we…"

"Go back in time and take the Nutter volume off Anathema's hands before she burns it? That's exactly what I'm suggesting! Are you just now catching up?"

"Well, that would be wrong!"

"But it would work, and you'd have your book. Posterity would be complete. Gabriel could go back to practising Celestial Wankery, or whatever it is he does when he's leaving you alone."

"But the danger, Crowley…"

"It's only a two-week turn," the demon said. "We wouldn't be able to leave Tadfield until the time-turn is over, which means hanging about for two weeks – that's no problem is it? And there might be a localised paradox of sorts, but I reckon that if Adam felt it (and he would), he could just fix it."

"You think it would work? I'm… not saying yes, I'm simply… hypothesising."

"It would work. We know when, we know where, we know Anathema didn't want to keep it, but she also didn't like the idea of burning it - she'll give it to you, no problem. It's a perfect solution for her."

"I suppose that's true."

"But to do it, I'd have to do two things I don't fancy. I'd have to tell Beelzebub about the book. Then, I'd have to actually interact with her, and find some angle that would convince her to let me borrow the time-turning… thing."

"We can't do that – she can't know about the second volume. Hell can't know."

"Why not? You're just going to hand it safely off to your Higher-Ups, aren't you? I'll just let her think she might get her hands on it, but really, she won't get close. I'll just tell her I didn't get there in time, or something."

"Go back into the fold, possibly put yourself in the line of fire, grovel to Beelzebub. You'd do that for… erm, Posterity?"

"I would. If Posterity is incomplete without those prophecies…"

"Crowley."

"Posterity is important to me."

Aziraphale stared at him as he drove, in practical disbelief of what he was hearing. Crowley, as he sometimes did, pretended not to notice, as if he really needed to keep his eyes on the road in front of him.

"Well, truth be told," the angel said, after he'd had his moment of beatific wonder. "I don't think you'll have to do much groveling. You didn't see the look on Beelzebub's face when I ordered her to leave you alone."

"Ha!" Crowley laughed. "Maybe I'll go down there with a plant mister filled with tap water or something. A bit of leverage."

"Now, now, no need to resort to death threats," Aziraphale said. "And anyway, we can't do this. It's too dangerous. I'm saying no."

"Oh, I'm not asking your permission," Crowley said. "If Posterity hurts, then so do I. I'm getting that book."

Aziraphale could not contain a goofy, shy smile. "Thank you, Crowley, for taking it out of my hands."

"Shut up."  
________________________________________

He drove the Bentley back into central London, to an unmarked office building that actually existed in a different dimension. Aziraphale decided to stay in the car.

"I'll listen to some of your modern music," he said, clearly not convinced that this was something he fancied. "Get a feel for it."

"Hope you like Queen," Crowley muttered, climbing out. Before shutting the door, he bent, and asked, "Is Freddy Mercury one of ours, or one of yours?"

Aziraphale stared off into the distance for a few moments. "Do you know, I have no idea."

"Yeah. Me neither," Crowley mused, with wonder. "Right, well, I'll be back… soonish. Don't get into trouble."

With that, he shut the door, and approached the barely-existent building. To his mild surprise, the escalator that lead downward was still perceptible to him. This was a good sign that though he was no longer in the ranks of Hell's "trusted" minions, they were leaving the light on for him. Perhaps because they still wanted him, but more likely because they were at least mildly afraid of him. Or it was simply an oversight, the same sort of thing that Gabriel had called "clerical confusion."

He took the escalator down, then walked through a cloudy, ethereal wall into an infinite, dank hallway, where trillions upon trillions of the damned walked aimlessly, wordlessly, for all eternity.

Within seconds, there was a ripping sound in the air, and Beelzebub appeared before him, the giant insect on her head squishing disgustingly, and the small ones around her buzzing irritatingly, as ever.

"Lord Beelzebub!" he said, exaggeratedly boisterously. "Just the thing I wanted to see!"

"Demon Crowley," she snarled, as the lost souls groaned and slipped around them. "Or should we revert to your original name, Crawley, as you've come back. Crawling. You know… in an undignified manner. Like a thing… that crawls. Like a snake, because you're a snake. Beneath us all."

"Erm, yeah… no offence, but you might want to practise your impromptu bravado," Crowley suggested. "I mean, when you've got a script, you're brilliant, but when you're taken by surprise, you just sort of… trail off. It's not very commanding, you know?"

"Still talk too much, I see," she commented.

"That's all you've got? Seriously, Lord Beelzebub. Just run drills with Hastur every now and then, you know? Improvisational menacing. Look into it."

"You're impertinent."

"Oooh, burn!"

To his great amusement, Beelzebub grabbed him by the lapel of his designer jacket, and hauled him through a door that had just appeared nearby. She slammed it behind them, and suddenly, they were in a room that looked like an office. An endless office, with poor lighting and more paperwork than even hell could fathom.

There, behind a desk, was Crowley's old favourite, Duke Hastur.

"Blimey," he grumbled, looking Crowley over. "Look what the cat dragged in. Come crawling back have you, Crawley? That is your real name isn't it? Crawley, like a snake? You know…"

"Oh, dear Satan, please stop with the crawling and the snake references," Crowley groaned. "It's tragically unfunny, and as it happens, I haven't come crawling back!"

"Then you've got five seconds to state your purpose before we destroy you," Beelzebub said, colourlessly.

"Ah-ah, careful," Crowley warned, with one index finger. "Let's not forget that the last time you saw me, I was quite happily bathing in holy water, much to your great personal terror. Remember that? Eh?"

Her face turned down slightly, but just enough, and she nodded. Crowley looked at Hastur, who broke eye-contact.

"How do you reckon that was possible, oh, Lord of the Flies?" he asked.

"I'm sure I do not know," Beelzebub responded, back to feigning boredom.

"Exactly," Crowley spat. "And Hastur, me old mate, if you've been chatting with our friend Michael, up in the top floor office, you might know that a certain annoyingly persnickety angel achieved something similar when his bosses decided to get revengey."

"Maybe I knew it. Maybe I didn't," Hastur grumbled.

"I'm curious," Crowley said. "How many meetings have you had about it?"

"Seven," Hastur said, before he could stop himself.

"Shut it," Beelzebub warned him.

Crowley cackled with laughter. "I can just see it now! A really riveting Powerpoint presentation entitled, Can Angels and Demons Become One?"

"It was called The Ying and Yang of Angels and Demons," Hastur said. "But you've got the basic gist."

"Would you shut up?" Beelzebub growled at Hastur, growing very agitated.

"Well, that question, sadly, remains to be answered," Crowley muttered. "But what about When Demons Fall? Have you lot talked about that? What happens to the substance of a demon when we start to stray from the fold? I might have been your guinea pig! Is it like when we fell from heaven, or is it a much more concrete, fleshy process? And what does it mean?"

"That one was terrifying," Hastur said, uncomfortably. Well, everything he did and said, he did and said uncomfortably.

"Hastur, you complete moron!" Beelzebub shouted.

"My presentation was called Is There a Domain Other Than Heaven and Hell, and What Are Its Interests?" Hastur confessed, with his usual total lack of finesse, and utterly not hearing Beelzebub at all.

"For Hell's sake, Hastur, are you fucking kidding me?" Beelzebub screamed.

And then after that, there was silence. Crowley studied both of their faces. He could tell from the complete lack of pretention that demons (other than he) tended to portray, that this concept had been the one that had stuck, the one they'd been grinding on, ever since the "meeting" where Hastur had brought it up. Of course they'd never suspect the truth about the body-swap, because that required imagination. This lot were assuming that something had happened to Crowley and Aziraphale, and not that they'd have done something.

Thus, the theory of a third domain. It wasn't bad, as theories went, and actually, it bordered on the imaginative.

Crowley knew that there was, in fact, a third domain: it was called humanity. It's what made him and Aziraphale unique, and rather kindred spirits. They both understood this, having lived in the "third domain" for quite some time, having seen its interest, its powers, its lack of goodness and badness, and yet its terrifying depth of both. If Satan's minions had really wanted an apocalypse, Crowley reckoned, they should have been asking this question thousands of years ago! They would have realised eventually that humanity was to be a part of everything, and it was not to be trifled with, and they'd have come better prepared. But by underestimating humanity, they allowed Crowley to run amok, as it were, and sabotaged their own great war. The same could be said of heaven, of course.

But it had not occurred to Beelzebub nor Hastur that humanity was the third domain, as important and powerful as heaven or hell. No, what they were wondering was, was there actually another metaphysical kingdom, ruled over by an analog of God or Satan, with its own operatives like him and Aziraphale, Hastur and Michael, Beelzebub and Gabriel. And if there was, they feared it like mad, because they didn't understand it, and it had remained hidden from the cleverest on both sides of the game, for over six thousand years.

This possibility petrified them. And they had begun working with the notion that this third domain had highjacked one of their demons, and one of heaven's angels, and had perhaps caused the epic fails that were Crowley's non-obliterating holy bath, and Aziraphale's equally non-obliterating stroll through hellfire. But to what end? How had they seduced both and angel and a demon? What could this third domain do? What, indeed, was its agenda? What would hell's PR department need to do to prepare?

Inwardly, Crowley laughed – here was his angle. A fictional "kingdom" that could potentially rain down untold horrors. This was the sort of ruse that played straight into Crowley's wheelhouse!

Outwardly, he said, "A domain other than heaven and hell? What an interesting question."

"If you like," said the fly-infested Lord.

"Maybe you lot aren't as daft as I thought," he said, again, laughing on the inside.

"Indeed not," she replied. She looked Crowley over rather conspicuously, with disgust in her eyes.

"You're wondering if my very presence here is dangerous, aren't you?"

"Maybe."

"You're wondering what I am now, aren't you?"

"Maybe."

"You're right to worry. And you're wondering what's coming, aren't you?"

"Maybe."

"Well, Lord Beelzebub, have I got a book for you!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has planted the seeds of a sequel, called "The Third Domain," which will be posted directly after this story is finished.


	7. Laughter and Joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale learns a bit more about sexual relationships, and how complex they can be... and how simple.
> 
> He and Crowley both learn a bit more about love.
> 
> And the origin of the euphemism, "seeking joy" begins here.

Crowley slid back into the driver's seat of the Bentley, laughing, holding a leather clutch in his hands.

"The transaction was humorous?" Aziraphale asked, dryly.

"Unbelievably!" the demon responded, cackling a bit more. "I've never enjoyed Beelzebub's company so much!"

"And that?" Aziraphale said, indicating the thing in his friend's hands.

"This is the Temporal Plier," Crowley said, taking a heavy metal apparatus out of the leather pouch. "A time-turner-backer, if you will. Mission, very entertainingly, accomplished."

Crowley went on to describe how he had convinced Beelzebub to lend the thing out, and how it had been easy to exploit hell's paranoia about how the two of them had avoided execution.

"So, by inventing a whole metaphysical domain, with mysterious forces and agendas, you were able to manipulate the Lord of Hell into lending out her power?" Aziraphale scolded. "Crowley, how could you? Hell think they have another enemy! That's inconceivably dangerous! What were you thinking?"

"Okay, one bit of insanity at a time, angel," Crowley said. "One: I didn't invent it – Hastur did. In trying to work out how the hell you and I were able to do what we did, it's the best he could come up with. There were myriad theories – it's not my fault that his was the one that stuck: we've been working for, and have been infused by power from, an as-yet undiscovered supernatural realm, and we are neither pure angel nor pure demon anymore, but something else entirely."

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I don't like it."

"I merely did what I always do, which is to say, take the fears conjured in the minds of others, and exploit them."

"So, the M-25 was a fear conjured by man?"

"Well, it's not what I always do, but exploiting one's own, already-extant fears is a bit part of the work of a demon, okay? You know that, you've filled in for me on occasion."

"Shhhh!"

"Moving on… number two: It's not that dangerous, because there isn't actually a hidden third domain! They can't attack something that doesn't exist!"

"No, but they can surely try, Crowley, and that's…"

"And three: What was I thinking, you ask? I was thinking about getting that book, or had you forgotten, Mr. Posterity?"

"Madness," Aziraphale breathed, like someone's old appalled auntie. "Utter madness."

"If hell think there's an entire facet of existence that they didn't even conceive of until now, they're going to want to know what's on the horizon! And good old Agnes, she knows what's on the horizon!"

"I suppose."

"Besides, a fortnight ago, you were totally fine with the two of us messing with our respective bureaucracies."

"I know, I know…"

"Well, then, shall we?" Crowley asked, holding up the metal device.

"May I see?"

Crowley handed it over, and Aziraphale studied it. It was in the shape of a right triangle, and the corners were labeled with the letters G, S, and A. He recognised it as a rudimentary diagram of the Glastonbury-Stonehenge-Avebury triangle. Each side of the triangle represented a ley line, and it formed a sort of "vortex" of power to which misguided so-called witches and alchemists had assigned great meaning over the millennia. Although, now that he was holding it in his hand, knowing it was a bona fide artefact of hell, he wondered how misguided they actually were.

"Look on the other side," Crowley told him.

Aziraphale turned it over, and discovered that there was a second triangle congruent to the first, attached by a sort of hinge.

"Oh, I see," Aziraphale breathed. "Temporal plier. Folding time." And he took the bottom bit and began to fold it over the top bit.

"No, stop!" Crowley exclaimed putting his hand in the way. "Don't do that until we really mean it. You could land us in the fourteenth century, and I'll be blessed before I'd go through that again."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Do you recognise the layout?" Crowley asked him.

"Yes, indeed."

"Well, it might not surprise you to know that one of those ley lines passes straight through Tadfield. We should be able to make time fold there, and from there, everywhere else."

"And then, you said that we'll need to stay in Tadfield until we catch up to the moment when we went back in time?" Aziraphale confirmed.

"Yeah," Crowley said. "Just to be safe."

"Well, then, I suppose I should return to my flat and pick up a few things, if we're going to be staying."

"Most of your things are in my flat, because you couldn't stand the paint job Adam gave your flat, nor the chairs, nor, apparently, the precise shade of the parquet," Crowley reminded him, calmly. "Or had you forgotten?"

"No, no," Aziraphale said, suddenly uncomfortable again. "I most definitely had not forgotten. And I suppose we'll need to drive back to Tadfield before we can put this little gem to use."

Crowley nodded. "That will minimise whatever damage there is. If we keep all of our goings-on in Tadfield, paradox is less likely to spread, if we cock things up somehow. Not to mention, if it's contained, then Adam can probably fix it."

"So we can't pick up any of our personal effects before we go?"

"Like what? What do we really need? Any changes of clothes would be just for vanity or comfort's sake. If you really have to have a bloody bathrobe, you can conjure one up. Or buy a new one when we get there, if you must. We don't need toothbrushes or shampoo, and we'll have the new book for light reading."

"I'm not supposed to…"

"But I can," Crowley said, devilishly. "Gabriel only said you are not to peek. He can't stop me from reading aloud to you."

"He can't, can he?" Aziraphale said, delightedly, as Crowley started up the Bentley. "Well, I rather fancy the idea of lying about for a few days in Tadfield, listening to you read me prophecies."

"Yeah?"

"Well… you know… because it would vex Gabriel so much."

"Oh, yes, of course," Crowley said, sarcastically, imitating his friend's posh mannerism.  
________________________________________

The next hour saw them on the road to Tadfield, and they agreed that the best place to fold back time was just down the road from Jasmine Cottage, given that they needed to be in the field across from the Cottage. The lane that stretched out behind the cottage and to the south was a well treed-in, hilly area, unlikely to be surveilled.

"Can't risk being seen by Ms. Device and her paramour, the failed witchfinder who breaks things," Aziraphale said. "If they see us, they might ask what we're doing back there, and then it could get awkward. And surely they can't see us disappear in time. What dreadful work it would be doing, as they say, damage control."

"Pfff," Crowley said, dismissively. "They're the last people that would see us. They're back in the cottage by now, doing… er, never mind."

"Doing what?"

"Well..." Crowley sighed. "Each other, I would imagine."

"Oh. But… when we last saw them, they both seemed rather distressed."

"All the more reason," Crowley said. "The relationship is new – trust me, they've found an excuse to get naked again."

"Sorry, but I don't follow. How do you mean, all the more reason?"

"Look… I was just shooting my mouth off. Ignore me."

"No, no, I'm genuinely curious. Please explain."

Crowley actually looked to his left, and met his friend's eye. "You really want to talk about this?"

"Well, you're clearly the one with a stronger grasp on these things, considering that you've, you know… been there, done that, as it were," Aziraphale said, carefully. Crowley chuckled at the awkward and unnecessarily crisp way the angel used a colloquialism like been there, done that. "And we're talking about a side to human behaviour that I just don't understand. It might help me to talk about it."

"Help how? You're not doing blessings anymore, are you?"

"Not in any official capacity, but I'm planning to continue to live amongst humans for as long as possible," Aziraphale insisted. "As are you, I think. But because you're all about temptation and hedonism and the like, you have an insider's track into their raisons d'être that heaven has never touched."

"An insider's track into their raisons d'être that heaven has never touched," Crowley repeated, contemplatively. "Thats... that's just beautiful, that phrase. Honestly, Aziraphale, you've got a real way with words! Okay, so… you want to talk about it, so you can understand human behaviour better."

"Yes, exactly."

"So you can live amongst them more seamlessly – as I do," Crowley confirmed.

"Absolutely! And I find that I'm confused about the things you just said."

"How so?"

"As I understand it, copulation is an act either of love or reproduction, and therefore of joy," Aziraphale said, his voice high and crisp.

"Don't… don't say copulation. It's... icky."

"Icky?"

"And I'm sorry to burst your bubble, but it's not always about joy. If it were, do you think I'd have been able to use it so well in my professional capacity?"

"I hadn't thought of that," Aziraphale said, genuinely pensively.

"It's about feeling, for better or for worse. That's it. Feeling, as in sensation, or feeling, as in emotion. Either. Both."

"But, I fail to understand how two people being distressed is, as you said all the more reason to…" he gestured with his hands, a kind of maladroit forward motion. Crowley reached over and pushed his hands back into his lap, not wishing to experience any more of that particular brand of nonverbal communication.

"Well, they were upset about the book being burned, especially her," Crowley explained. "So, scenario number one, is they took solace in the shag."

"Ah. I could see that, actually."

"He'd have said, are you upset, love? And she'd have said, I am – what are you going to do about it? And he'd have said something like, give you orgasms that will make you see stars."

"Oh my!"

"Do you know what that means?"

"In theory."

"Only, you know what? Newton Pulsifer, of all people, probably didn't say that, because… well, come on, you've met him. Anyway, that's how it will have gone, only a lot less direct, and with a lot more heavy breathing."

"Fascinating!" Aziraphale exclaimed.

"Or, scenario number two, they had a make-up shag."

"A… what?"

"They had a tiny snit over whose idea it was to burn the book, and they'll use that as a jumping-off point. They'll pick a fight, antagonise each other for a few hours, and either fall into a glorious kiss (and more) while they're all hot and screaming, or, one of them will insincerely apologise for upsetting the other, and from there, see scenario number one."

"Really?" Aziraphale asked, incredulously. "Antagonism can do this to people?"

"Yep," Crowley responded. "And the longer the antagonism, the more tightly-wound they're bound to be. And the more tightly wound, the bigger the…"

"You don't say," Aziraphale said, rather quietly.

"I do say," Crowley confirmed.

After a few long, contemplative beats, Aziraphale said, "If I might dare to hazard an observation, though…"

"Observe away."

"You describe copulation – or whatever you call it – as an act of feeling, for better or for worse, which implies that it could be about any feeling, including melancholy, wrath, self-doubt, excitement, terror, disgust… all of it."

"Yep. You name the human experience, I'll find you a reason to shag. I mean… so to speak."

"And in the scenarios you described, I can see how Miss Device and Mr. Pulsifer are coming from a place of melancholy or wrath. But, Crowley, in the end, is the copulation not just a way of seeking joy?"

There was a long pause, while Crowley thought it through.

"Do you know what? In this case, angel, I suppose you're right," said Crowley, smiling. "You've managed to turn quite a cynical aspect of humanity into something only an angel would think of."

"Well… I like it!"

"But listen," Crowley said, putting out a serious index finger. "As long as you're going to understand and live seamlessly among humans as I do, you might as well understand that Anathema and Newt – they're in love. Or at least, they're headed in that direction. Only in that situation can two people find joy in the shag, when they're coming from a place of melancholy and wrath and self-doubt, et cetera, et cetera. Two people who can't stand each other, or who are just two ships passing in the night… unless they're joyful to start with, it can't really be done."

"Well, everything you've just said is encouraging. I'm encouraged."

"You are?"

"Of course! I've just learned another facet of why love is magnificent."

"Yes, I suppose you have."

And Crowley, who had only ever pursued copulation as a cynical act, was suppressing a joyful smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The euphemism, "seeking joy" becomes a thing for this pair, and will become important later on, as the two of them come to terms with what their own relationship might look like in the future. Just calling your attention to it. :-)
> 
> Would absolutely ADORE a comment or two... I've had precious few, and am languishing without them! ;-) Thank you for reading!


	8. Time and Personal Space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our ineffable duo uses the time-travel device, and spy on Jasmine Cottage for a bit.
> 
> They also have some more conversation... one never knows when one might slip, and accidentally say something important.

It was dusk in Tadfield, perfect weather as always. As agreed, Crowley parked the Bentley in the lane that stretched back from Jasmine Cottage.

"To minimise further time-travel-related weirdness," Crowley said, "We should probably get out of the car – not bring it with us. Also, it'll be a good indicator of when it's safe to leave the area. When the Bentley appears in the lane, it'll mean we've caught up to now, and it'll be all right to drive it home."

"All right – I understand. I still feel a bit incomplete knowing we'll be here for fifteen days, yet I've brought none of my things with me," Aziraphale said, climbing out of the car.

"You don't need things, you've got me," Crowley said flippantly. He was now standing to the side of the road, just behind the Bentley. "Okay, it's going to take a bit of meditation to activate the thing, and make it understand what we want it to do. For that, I'll need your hands."

"All right," Aziraphale said offering up his open hands.

Crowley set the triangular apparatus half in Aziraphale's right hand, and half in his own. Then he cradled Aziraphale's right hand with his left, and gestured for the angel to do likewise.

"Close your eyes," Crowley whispered. "Concentrate on the big picture – ley lines, the Glastonbury triangle, Agnes Nutter and her talents, how much you want to find her second book… concentrate your angelness on it."

Aziraphale more or less understood what he was supposed to do, when Crowley said the big picture. All of these points of power were part of, well, God's ineffable plan. Even though the apocalypse had been averted, She still had much to accomplish, and there was a certain way in which She liked to do it. In the angel's mind, all of those things were easy to reconcile, and make part of the vortex of power, that of Her creation, Her will, Her pervasive existence and influence…

He no longer felt about it the way he used to, no longer struggled to convince himself that the Almighty was infallibly good, and he was Her eternal, unquestioning servant. Those days had passed. But the ineffability was still there, and Aziraphale was still, at heart, an angel.

The triangle's edges began to glow.

"Now, concentrate on that Sunday," Crowley whispered. "Where were we? What were we doing?"

"We'd body-swapped," Aziraphale answered. "You were in heaven, and I was in hell."

"Don't tell me – I already know," Crowley lulled. "Think on it. Bring us back to that day. Early. Breakfast-time."

And before either one of them knew it, they were opening their eyes not onto a Tadfield dusk, but onto a bright Tadfield morning, fifteen days prior. The Bentley was nowhere to be seen.

The angel and the demon could both feel magic upon the air – that was the touch of Adam. Everything had been newly reset, and for a half-day or so, there would be the tinge of artificiality about it. They both remembered this feeling from before, though they'd both wondered at the time how much of the "tinge" they felt was as a result of being on each other's turf for several hours.

"Well – what now? Wait to see them leave the cottage?" asked Aziraphale.

"I reckon so," said Crowley.

Just then, a posh car surprised them, coming round the bend, and parked outside Jasmine Cottage. They hid behind some trees, and watched a man exit the car, holding an old black box, roughly the size of an early-1990s computer monitor.

They watched Newton Pulsifer let him into the house, and five minutes later, they watched the man leave the house in terror, jump in his car, and flee without the box.

"You don't think…" Aziraphale began.

"…he just delivered Agnes Nutter's second volume?" Crowley finished. "Yes, I do."

"I wonder how all of this came together," Aziraphale commented, a delighted look on his face. "Oh, I do hope I get the chance to find out!"  
________________________________________

For the next ninety minutes, the two of them sat on tree stumps on the edge of the wood, by the roadside just behind Jasmine Cottage, chatting. They both understood that right now, Anathema was probably inside the house, agonising over what to do with the book, and Newton was trying not to say something that would see him cast out.

"He's a good lad," Aziraphale mused, as they discussed the former Witchfinder Private. He happened to put his hand in his waistcoat pocket just now, and discovered he'd brought a small packet of biscuits along. It was a four-pack of dark chocolate Hobnobs. He took a bite from one, and offered the packet to Crowley. He knew the demon was not historically wont to snack between meals (if he ate meals), but things had changed recently. Crowley had discovered the wonders of food the way he himself had discovered the wonders of sleep.

"Astonishingly uncool," Crowley mused, concerning young Pulsifer, and he indeed took a biscuit as offered, and had a bite. "But yes – a good lad. I suspect that Miss Device will go a long way toward boosting his cool, though."

"You've called me astonishingly uncool, as well," Aziraphale reminded him.

"Right. He's got Anathema, you've got me. Only you're too bloody stubborn to let me help."

A few moments went by, and Aziraphale said, "As long as we're on the subject of us being stuck with one another, I'd like to ask: where are we going to stay?"

"Actually, I hadn't thought that far ahead," Crowley confessed, chewing. "But now you mention it…"

"I'd been assuming we'd ask Miss Device to give us shelter in her cottage, since we will be saving her ancestor's good work from the pyre, but now, I'm thinking…"

"That would be a terrible idea," said Crowley.

"Yes, exactly."

Crowley's next tirade came out as whine more than anything else. "It occurred to me, too, but let's face it: it would be two weeks of listening to the headboard banging against the wall all night. Either that, or two weeks of them feeling as though they have to hold back. No demon wants to be responsible for binding up the hedonistic tendencies of humans."

"Right, and we don't need four people in the house holding their breath all the time," Aziraphale said, then took another bite of his biscuit.

Crowley smirked, and waited for his friend to realise what he'd said, and try to cover his tracks. But he did not do so. Apparently, the angel's mind had immediately gone somewhere else, because he seemed to be completely oblivious to what he'd let slip.

"I suppose I could sit vigil here and wait for Miss Device and her young man to come out, and you could go into town and find us an inn," Aziraphale suggested.

Crowley thought about this, and immediately, the idea filled him with dread.

What he said was, "No way I'm doing that without you. You are a monumental snob, and I'll undoubtedly choose the wrong inn, and I'll have to hear about how shoddy tilework is in the bathroom (or some such rubbish) for the next fortnight."

What he thought was: I'm not making decisions about sleeping-arrangements without your direct input. Until shockingly recently, you wouldn't even let me sit beside you on the bus.

"We can't walk into an inn together, Crowley, people will talk!"

"Not in the twenty-first century they won't," the demon retorted. "Haven't you been paying attention? Well, I suppose it is a small town, but… honestly, what can they say that hasn't already been said?"

Aziraphale replaced the packet of biscuits (there were two left) in his pocket, and folded his hands in his lap. "There's a great deal that hasn't been said," he muttered, looking anywhere but at his friend.

"Well, I'm saying it as loudly as I dare. Whether you choose to hear me, that's on you, angel."  
________________________________________

One would think that for two beings who had been on Earth for six thousand years, ninety minutes would pass like nanoseconds to a human being.

But these ninety minutes felt long and languorous, probably due to their uncertainty. At the moment, they were affecting nothing – they were just sitting there. But at any moment, they would see a young witch exit her home, and they would begin to meddle with history.

"If only she hadn't decided to burn that book," Aziraphale said, out of the blue, at one point, about seventy-five minutes in.

"Aw, give her a break," Crowley said. "It's got to be a bugger being a professional descendant. Three hundred and fifty years is a bloody long time, in human terms."

Anathema clearly had great respect for her ancestor, but neither Aziraphale nor Crowley truly wondered why she had decided to burn Agnes' second volume. She was tired. And both angel and demon could clearly see that the burden of being Agnes Nutter's descendant had taken its toll upon her, her life, and her personality, especially since it fell upon her to help avert Armageddon. They both felt they could relate to her burden, and had both rebelled in an ultimately similar way. Anathema had freed herself by burning the book, Aziraphale and Crowley had freed themselves with the body-swap, and the very satisfying scaring of their "superiors." All three of them knew there was work still to be done, now that the Earth was no longer immediately doomed, but none of them cared anymore to actually do it.

Though, Aziraphale's love of books and history and Agnes Nutter had won out, and he'd come here to do what he felt was the right thing. And because Aziraphale couldn't help himself, Crowley couldn't either.

And so, here they crouched in the woods.

"There they go," Crowley whispered. "Come on."

They followed a safe distance behind Anathema and Newt, and both made zero noise walking, even over dead leaves, and branches that should rightfully have snapped beneath their feet. They were miraculously stealthy.

"We're being creepy," Aziraphale whispered, with a frown of distaste.

"I know, isn't it fun?" Crowley said absently, with nevertheless, a big smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd leave me a comment, it would make my day! Honestly. Thank you for reading!


	9. Decision Making and Rule Breaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley follow Anathema and Newt into the field where the book was burned, and take action.
> 
> Also, they meet up with Adam Young, and Crowley sees an opportunity to "force" something of a confession out of his angelic companion. And he is not disappointed!

The young witch and her brand-new boyfriend found a spot in the middle of a field that, as Anathema had described, seemed to unite about half a dozen back gardens, and down the hill a ways, a lovely lake. The spot was right beside a patch of dirt, about a metre wide, perfect for a small bonfire.

Anathema was carrying a black box, about the size of a circa-1990 computer monitor (though not the same box as had been delivered earlier, or so it seemed), and Newton a rucksack. He reached inside and removed a blanket, which he spread on the ground, and the two of them sat down.

Aziraphale and Crowley could not keep a respectable distance (read: remain unseen), and still hear what Anathema and Newt were saying to each other through conventional means (read: ears). So Crowley snapped his fingers, and suddenly the two young people's voices were magically crossing the field, and reaching the ears of the angel and the demon.

Newton pulled some old newspaper from a rucksack, and placed it in the middle of the dirt patch, then weighed it all down with a dry branch lying nearby.

"Right," said Newt. "If you'll give me back my matches, I'll get the fire going."

"Oh dear," Aziraphale groaned. Just the thought of Agnes' second book meeting fire pained him a bit.

"Steady on," Crowley whispered. "That's why we're here. Just keep quiet."

They saw Anathema hand something over, and then Newt struck a match. The little pile of kindling began to burn.

"Very nice," Anathema said. "You managed to ignite, rather than extinguish!"

"Your basic boy-scout stuff, I can do," Newt told her. "I could rob a bank with a Swiss army knife, were it not for all the electronic security. Actually, that would be rather advanced boy-scout stuff."

The two of them sat for a few minutes in silence, staring into the fire. Then, Anathema turned to her left and removed a thick stack of parchment from the black box she'd been carrying.

Aziraphale inhaled sharply. "There it is."

"Are you sure?" Newt asked her.

"Yes, I'm sure," she answered. "I know what I'm doing, I just don't like it."

"Technological marvels can be revealed," he offered.

"And you'd probably just break them," she teased.

The young man chuckled. Then, "Think of it this way: do you want to be a descendant all your life?"

Anathema never answered, she simply took the top page off the document she held in her hands, and leaned toward the fire.

"Indeed, she does not!" Aziraphale said, frantically, as he jumped out from behind a bush, and began hurrying toward the young couple. He waved his right hand, and just like that, the fire was completely out, including the little bit that had begun to recede the corner of the page.

Anathema could not decide between gaping at the spot where the flame had once been, or at the angel now emerging from seemingly nowhere, and she spent several seconds looking back and forth as though watching the world's quickest ping-pong match.

A moment later, Crowley sauntered into view, and followed distantly behind his friend, not wanting to get in the way of this transaction, and continuing to keep his distance.

"Oh! It's you!" Newt said, pointing at Aziraphale, then at Crowley. "And you!"

"Erm, wow… hi," Anathema said, trying to find her bearings. "What… what…."

"Am I doing here?" Aziraphale said, now just slightly short of breath from having jogged across the field. "What, indeed! I'm glad you asked that, young lady. And, well, I suppose there's no point in beating about the bush, as they say, so I'll just say it. Plain and simple, no nonsense. In the Queen's English. What I'm hoping to gain, Miss Device, if you'll allow me..."

"He wants your book!" Crowley called from twenty metres away, in light of the fact that the angel would not just get to the bloody point.

"You… want my book?" Anathema asked. "Agnes' book?"

"Yes, dear, but the second of Agnes' books. We've been told there's a continuing volume."

"This?" And she held up the stack of parchment she'd received that morning from an agitated lawyer.

"Yes," Aziraphale breathed, reverentially. He held out his hands. "May I?"

She handed it up to him, and he took it, noting absently that had Crowley allowed him to stop back at the book shop, he'd have been able to pick up some surgical gloves, so as not to damage the parchment. Then he let his eyes dance ecstatically over the title page: "Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter: Concerning the World That Is To Come – Ye Saga Continues."  
________________________________________

It was around now that Crowley noticed a movement in what little peripheral vision he had, while wearing the dark glasses with the side covers. Actually, it was more a feeling than any glimpse of things shifting, the frisson of something kindred coming into the vicinity...

Within a few seconds, a small black and white dog sped across the green.

And coming up behind him, at a casual clip, was Adam Young.

"Look at that," Crowley muttered to himself. "The Antichrist out for his Sunday morning constitutional."

Adam noticed Aziraphale, Anathema and Newt in the field, stopped, and waved. The three of them waved back.

"Oi, Adam," Crowley said, walking toward the boy. "Lovely afternoon, then. Thanks for that."

Adam shrugged. "You're welcome. What are you two still doing here?"

"It's a long story," Crowley said, now stopping ten feet away from him. "I mean… you'd believe it if I told you, but you'd likely be bored."

Adam studied him with squinted eyes for a few moments. Then he said, "There's something a bit off about you."

"Off? I mean, well, I'm a demon, but why would that seem off to you? You're the…"

"No, it's something else. Are you…" Adam continued to scrutinise him, then he looked at Aziraphale the same way, then back at Crowley. "Are you out of your time?"

"Oh… yeah," admitted Crowley. "I do that sometimes – wow, you're good. Like I said, long story. But what about you? What does a boy like you, if there were any boys like you, get up to on a day like today… if there ever were a day like today? I mean, there was never supposed to be a today, was there?"

"I'm being punished. By my dad. I'm restricted to our garden."

Crowley smiled. "Following the rules is not your strong suit, I see."

"Nah, not me," said the boy, smiling.

"Good for you!" Crowley said. "Just like a perfect, human boy!"

"But if my dad asks, it's because Dog ran off, and I had to chase him."

"I don't imagine I'll be seeing your dad anytime soon, but if he asks, I'll absolutely lie for you. No qualms."

There was a pause, and then Adam said, "Erm… is your car all right? I did my best with…"

"Yes, yes, it's flawless, in fact," Crowley told him. "I appreciate that."

"You helped me. You helped me realise who I actually am, and that my life isn't about just what some book says it ought to be."

"Ah, well..."

"It was the least I could do. Considering how annihilated your car was, and I was sorting everything out anyway, you know, the way it had been…"

And in this little bit of conversation, Crowley saw an opportunity. Adam Young was standing right in front of him, less than twenty-four hours after the failed Armageddon, discussing his work in putting things right, the way they were before it all went down.

Just a little while ago, he and Aziraphale had got into a short, but very enlightening exchange, that was nevertheless frustrating to Crowley. Probably to them both.

People would talk, Aziraphale had insisted, when Crowley suggested that they needed to be together when they checked into an inn.

"What could they say that hasn't already been said?" he had asked the angel, as a retort. He had been referring to the fact that people had taken the two of them for a couple, for time immemorial. Even in eras of history when 'that sort of thing' was not considered 'normal.'

But to his surprise, the angel interpreted his comment a whole different way, and had admitted that there was much, indeed, that had not been said. Both of them had been saying things to each other for centuries, in their own way. But Crowley had consciously got louder, so to speak, the last eighty years or so, and had, on more than one occasion, spooked his friend. He was, as he'd told Aziraphale, "speaking" as loud as he dared, and he had been all too conscious of not pushing. And so, that left the ball in the angel's court.

Crowley realised, in this moment with Adam, that he'd just discovered a way to gracefully lob a serve that his friend would have no choice but to return. Hopefully, this would move the game forward, for better or for worse.

"Yeah, Adam, about re-setting the world the way it had been before, I'd like to have a bit of a word with you," Crowley said.

"Oh. Yeah? Why?"

"In the midst of all the chaos yesterday, Aziraphale's book shop and flat were destroyed in a fire."

"I know. Are all the books not restored? I thought I got them all."

"The book shop is fine – again, flawless, and thanks for that. It's the flat that did get back the way it was."

"Oh really? Well, I'll admit, I didn't pay much attention to that bit. Reckoned he'd care more about the books."

"Well, you're not wrong there. But, Adam, if we asked you to, you know, reset things again, could you do it without disturbing anything? Without people noticing?"

"I could," the boy said. "But… couldn't you do it as well? Or him? You guys both have magic, right? I mean, I saw you stop time, and transport the three of us into, like, a sideways world. And here, today, you're…"

"I know, I know," Crowley interrupted. "But Aziraphale's not that keen on us doing what he calls frivolous miracles. He likes to earn what he has, get things done the proper way if he can… launder his clothes, rather than miracle them clean, things like that. If he really wanted the walls a particular colour, he could snap his fingers and do it, but he's not that sort of bloke. Not as a rule, anyway."

"Okay. Just tell me what needs fixing."

It was just about then when Aziraphale shook hands with both Anathema Device and Newton Pulsifer, and began walking back toward Crowley, elated, with the stack of parchment in-hand.

"I found out how she got it!" Aziraphale called out as he approached. "I'll explain it later – a fascinating story about Agnes and a bunch of lawyers, and some coins. It explains a lot about the chap we saw leaving her house in a hurry."

Crowley smiled. "So, you got what you came for!"

"She was nominally reluctant to give it up," Aziraphale said with a wry smile, clutching the manuscript to his chest. "But she didn't need much convincing. Especially since the first prophecy is 'Giveth the pages to the angel, and you will finde felicitous union with Adultery's spawn.'"

"Whoa. That's… risqué," Crowley commented, as Adam laughed. "And also, I think… wow, too much information."

"No, no," Aziraphale said, waving his hand. "Newton Pulsifer has an ancestor whose name was Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery Pulsifer, also a Witchfinder, and well-known to Agnes Nutter, to say the least. They called him Adultery for short."

"So, the first prophecy said she should give the second volume to you, and then she and Newt can go shag their brains out."

The angel looked at him disapprovingly, and subtly indicated there's a child present with a tilt of his head. "It means, they find happiness together."

Crowley chuckled. "Tomato, to-mah-to. I like my interpretation better, because yours isn't funny. Wait a minute! You peeked?"

Aziraphale sighed. "Yes. Yes I did. I feel awful."

"Really?" asked the demon, teeth bared, nose crinkled.

Aziraphale said, "Well, yes. Nominally."

Crowley cackled. "Well, look at the three of us! Just a trio of rule-breakers!"

Aziraphale grimaced. "I'm not a rule-breaker, I'm…"

Crowley interrupted. "Oh please. You can't possibly still believe that now. And speaking of which, Aziraphale, Adam and I were just discussing the details of the way things had been reset, after Armageddon was averted yesterday."

"Oh. Really?"

"Is there anything you'd like to say to Adam about the arrangement of your flat?" Crowley asked him pointedly.

Adam looked at him expectantly, with a face that seemed to suggest he was totally ready and willing to help…  
Aziraphale looked back and forth between Crowley, Adam, and the ground, uncomfortably. "Oh… well…excellent question. Thank you, Crowley. Erm… well, Adam… I think…"

Crowley was holding his breath.

"No," Aziraphale said to Adam, finally. "You did a marvellous job. I absolutely adore the changes."

"So, no paint, chairs, kitchen, floor issues?" Crowley wondered, again, pointedly.

"No, no," Aziraphale chirped. "Everything is…"

"Please don't say tickety-boo. Please. I'll actually pay you not to say it."

"You're sure?" Adam asked Aziraphale.

The angel smiled. "Yes, young man. Your work has been top-notch."

"Okay," Adam shrugged. "I've got to go find Dog. Keep in touch, okay, guys?"

And with that, he ran off.

Angel and demon watched him go. After a few beats, Crowley said, "You absolutely adore the changes?"

"Well, of course I don't. The walls are dreary brown, the chairs are completely the wrong colour, that stove is cumbersome and hideous, and the parquet floor is…"

"I know. All wrong."

"Twice it's been all wrong! Not to mention the kitchen. But you know… he's just a boy, Crowley. He should be running through the field, looking for his dog, and stealing from that apple tree, and living the rest of his life, not shoring up the details of my flat."

"I see."

"His Earthly presence is much grander than my own pedantic needs. Besides, he's the Antichrist. I'm an angel. Can't very well ask him for help."

"You ask me for help all the time."

"That's different."

"So you're saying, the young Antichrist has got better things to do, even though the changes would take two seconds?"

"Yes, exactly."

"And you're still against the idea of either one of us miracling it fixed?"

"Well, yes… just doesn't seem a kosher use of our unique powers for something so trivial."

"Right," Crowley said, and he dared to reach out and grab Aziraphale's hand. "Message received."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is the lifeblood of a person who produces anything with care. I am really hoping to hear your thoughts this time, in this penultimate chapter. Please leave a comment, and make me smile!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	10. Creature Comforts and the Days to Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has already more or less admitted that he could fix up his flat and move back in anytime, but home is where Crowley is, and that's really all there is to it.
> 
> Now, they have Agnes' second volume, and they have to check into an inn for a couple of weeks, and wait for time to catch up with them. Facing two weeks sharing very close quarters, there is anticipation and uncertainty. Aziraphale gets unusually candid with Crowley about his feelings here... his desires and fears are palpable. And also understandable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Candid as he gets, I hope that Aziraphale's euphemisms and lack of super-direct language isn't a detractor here. I've spent the story sort of building up metaphors, and setting up little ruses for Aziraphale… my goal here is something semi-eloquent, as well as slightly titillating, but very, very Aziraphale (at least, under the circumstances).
> 
> I hope you get feels. Lots of feels.
> 
> Let me know what you think.

With the Antichrist standing before them, Crowley saw an opportunity to jostle his oldest, dearest friend out of his tacit denial... of his fears, desires, truths. "Is there anything you'd like to say to Adam about the arrangement of your flat?" he asked the angel pointedly.

Adam looked at him expectantly, with a face that seemed to suggest he was totally ready and willing to help…

Aziraphale looked back and forth between Crowley, Adam, and the ground, uncomfortably. "Oh… well…excellent question. Thank you, Crowley. Erm… well, Adam… I think…"

Crowley was holding his breath.

"No," Aziraphale said to Adam, finally. "You did a marvellous job. I absolutely adore the changes."

"Okay," Adam shrugged. "I've got to go find Dog. Keep in touch, okay, guys?"

And with that, he ran off.

Angel and demon watched him go. After a few beats, Crowley said, "You absolutely adore the changes?"

"Well, of course I don't... his Earthly presence is much grander than my own pedantic needs. Besides, he's the Antichrist. I'm an angel. Can't very well ask him for help."

"And you're still against the idea of either one of us miracling it fixed?"

"Well, yes… just doesn't seem a kosher use of our unique powers for something so trivial."

"Right," Crowley said, and he dared to reach out and grab Aziraphale's hand. "Message received."  
________________________________________

The angel and the demon did not walk hand-in-hand to the inn.

Not because they were afraid of being seen, and scandalising R.P. Tyler, who scrutinised them anyhow, and, it might be said, was still not quite caught up with the twenty-first century in some matters.

Although, when Mr. Tyler got close, he said to Crowley, "Have we met? I've got the strangest feeling…"

"No, I don't think so," the demon responded. "Just got one of those faces, I guess."

"Mm. Right. Well, enjoy your day, gents," Mr. Tyler said, walking away uneasily with his dog.

When he was out of earshot, Crowley said, "He saw me yesterday, driving a flaming car. Asked him for directions. Nice bloke."

"Ah," Aziraphale said.

No, they did not walk hand-in-hand to the inn because that simply was not the way they did things. How many decades (centuries, even millenia?) had they perhaps wanted to walk hand-in-hand, and yet they walked side-by-side, and talked about the landscape, the town, and what this area of England had been like before any civilisation had touched it.

In fact, they hadn't walked anywhere hand-in-hand. They had stood in that spot in the field, after Adam Young had bounded away, for about ten seconds…. hand-in-hand. There was a moment of warmth that passed between them, that had only ever expressly been seen when they were both a little drunk. Aziraphale had turned to face Crowley, and had, for just a few seconds, added his other hand to the mix. Then he'd pulled it away.

"Shall we find an inn?" Crowley had said.

"We shall," Aziraphale had said, and just like that, they let go of one another, and began walking down the hill.

No-one "talked" when they checked into The Friar's Repose together, the church-rectory-turned-B&B, and Aziraphale did not complain about the décor, nor the tile, nor anything else. And it never occurred to him to request two rooms. It was simply a quiet place where the two of them could spend the next fifteen days, and make important decisions about the Days to Come.

"I suppose some of that's already been decided," Aziraphale said, sitting down on the foot of the bed, with Agnes Nutter's second volume laid out carefully beside him. He sat, as always, with his hands in his lap, and he did not make eye contact.

Crowley tossed the room key aside, grabbed the antique chair from underneath the faux-antique desk, turned it around and straddled it. He leaned his arms coolly on the back, and said, "I suppose it has. You've decided, at the very least, literally where we go from here. When we get back to London, anyway. We go back to my flat."

And he was not surprised when Aziraphale began talking again about having the kitchen redone, as well as the parquet – in fact, it made him smile. It would have been easy to see the angel's excuse-making as a backslide, an insult to the progress they'd made, but Crowley had never been a greedy sort of demon. He took his victories where he could find them. The fact that Aziraphale could have, at any time, miracled fixes to his living space, yet chose not to, and could have avoided all of that by asking Adam just to reset everything properly, yet chose not to… it spoke volumes. It said a lot, and said it loudly.

Besides, Crowley knew his friend well, and could see that Aziraphale's animated, feigned chagrin over what was wrong with his flat was actually masked excitement over getting to stay in Crowley's for a bit longer. Neither of them knew what would happen when the entire flat was fixed to Aziraphale's liking, but Crowley had an inkling that it never quite would be.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale said, timidly.

"Mm?"

"Do you think we should talk, now that we've got nothing but time?"

"About what?" But he knew the answer.

"I'd like to talk about myself, if I might. And a bit about you." Aziraphale sighed then, and seemed to pluck up a bit of courage. "You know, I've learned a lot from you."

"And I from you."

"I mean, just today. Or… part of a day two weeks from now, and part of today…"

"I get it. And I mean the same thing."

"I even learned from you today a little more about love," Aziraphale said, lightly, smiling. "But then... well, that's nothing new."

"Again – and I from you."

"Honestly, though, thank you for teaching me about, you know… taking solace in the shag, as you put it. Seeking joy, as I think of it. And how it only works if two people are already…"

"You're welcome," Crowley said, quietly, lightly.

"Learning more about the creature comforts, the things humans do because they feel good… it's good, isn't it? It's good for me. As an angel who trades in love. As a celestial being who lives amongst humans, and seeks to do so more seamlessly."

"Yes," Crowley said, nodding, just giving his friend space to talk.

"And I think it's good for me as…" the angel trailed off, and then took a deep, nervous breath. "Oh Crowley, this is so hard for me to say."

"Take your time, angel," Crowley shrugged. "I'm not getting any older."

Aziraphale thought about his words, and then continued. "It's good for me as, well, simply a sentient being who feels love. Who receives love. Who… loves someone."

"I see."

"Someone who loves someone would definitely benefit from knowing more about the creature comforts, wouldn't you agree? To share more? Become better versed in someone else's pleasures and needs, and ways that they exhale?"

"Yes, I would agree."

"I've always enjoyed food – that particular creature comfort is something I've never apologised for! I use living amongst humans as an excuse for why I love it so much, but it's infinitely more gratifying when I can admit that I enjoy food because I enjoy food. It's stimulating to the senses, makes you feel warm, satisfied, and sometimes inspired."

"Well said!"

"You're a demon, so you don't make excuses for why you sleep. You enjoy sleep because you just do. I suppose because it's relaxing, and can be rejuvenating. There are dreams to be had, and sheets to sink into."

"Exactly."

"Lately, I've been sleeping a lot more than I ever have, and you've been much more voracious and creative about food."

"True."

"Tell me, Crowley, why have you been enjoying food so much more?"

"Well, I suppose, through your influence, I've started to see how it's a bigger affair than just finding something tasty and filling your belly."

"Wonderful. And I'll admit, I've been sleeping because of your influence, and finding that it's a bigger affair than just being unconscious for a time, and escaping one's problems," Aziraphale said, gesturing with both hands, smiling lightly, seeming very satisfied.

"Good. I'm glad."

"Food for the taste, and sleep for the relaxation – they both feel good! No excuses, and isn't it glorious!" Then, Aziraphale's face fell. "And yet, I'm staying in your flat because mine is being repaired."

"Yes… what are you getting at?"

The angel looked at the floor. "Earlier, with Adam, you gave me a way out. You gave me an opportunity to actually go back to the way things were. And I chose to move forward with the way things are now."

"Yes, you did. I'm happy you did that."

"The point is, Crowley, we both know that my flat needing renovations is not the reason I'm staying at yours. We both know that the renovation reason is ultimately ridiculous and unneeded. I should be able to say that I'm staying at your flat for reasons that transcend reasons."

"Ineffable reasons?" Crowley asked with a smirk.

"Yes! And yet, I still feel the need to talk about redoing my kitchen and the parquet floors, and I'm not sure why. I should stop. I know I'm not fooling anyone. Oh, Crowley, I wish I could stop – I don't know why I can't."

"I know why. It's all right."

Crowley did understand – he'd understood very well from the beginning – well, not The Beginning, but certainly for at least a few centuries. Aziraphale was not ready – full stop. He was not ready to say that he wanted Crowley's company, and ached to be near him, and felt lost unless they were together. Truth be told, Crowley wasn't ready to freely admit those things either, but it was mostly because Aziraphale wasn't. And so, the demon was going to let the angel keep on using the redoing-his-flat excuse, until he was ready.

"I expect that I'll feel so much better living with you, once I can let go of the kitchen and the parquet excuse, but for now…"

"No need to explain. I get it."

There was a pregnant pause, and Aziraphale looked pained.

Crowley wished he could reassure him.

"And now, here we are," the angel said, casting his glance about the room. "In an inn. Sharing a room. Sharing a bed, maybe. And no-one, not even the man who saw you driving a flaming car, seems to think it's strange."

"That's good, isn't it?"

"Yes, but… Crowley, I don't know what the next two weeks hold for us – somehow I don't think even Mistress Nutter's manuscript could tell us. But what I do know is that…" Aziraphale took a deep and uneven breath, before continuing. "No one has ever given me more creature comfort than you, nor ultimately, more individual moments of joy."

"Wow."

"And I would like very much to continue… seeking joy. With you. Do you see?"

"Oh, I see." Of course he saw.

"It seems right, now that we're here. It's like fate brought us to it, doesn't it feel that way to you?"

"Yes, but I'm rather surprised…"

"Just let me talk. Please."

Crowley clammed up, and gestured for his friend to continue.

"But here's my dilemma. There's still a sizeable part of my brain telling me that I need to learn about the physicality of love because it's part of my job as an angel… even though I no longer have a job as an angel. I keep telling myself that I need to experience all aspects of love. If I'm going to be living amongst humans indefinitely, I'll have to understand their foibles and whatnot. I'm fighting a very strong instinct right now, to tell you just that. Isn't that ridiculous?"

"No," Crowley said. "Not at all. Not considering where you're coming from."

"Thank you for that." There was a pause, and the angel continued, "Crowley, I don't know what your expectations were when we checked in…"

"I had zero expectations, Aziraphale."

"But I don't think I can fully seek joy, if I'm still feeling the need to express excuses about why I'm seeking it."

"Okay," Crowley said, easily.

"One should not have to justify oneself in order to seek joy."

Crowley smiled. "No, one should not. Yet another element of what makes love magnificent. There aren't reasons - it just is."

"The urge to rationalise will leave me someday, I'm sure of it. And when that day comes, I've no doubt that you'll show me a new creature comfort that I can enjoy for itself, without excuses, much like food and sleep. Until then, I'm going to continue to be an angel about things, because I don't know yet how else to be."

"Okay. And I'll just keep being a demon, how's that?"

"A capital plan," Aziraphale said, with a twinkle in his eye.

There was a long silence, and Crowley asked, "Are you done?"

"I think so."

"You can keep talking if there's more to say."

"For now, I believe I've said all that I am capable of saying. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Honestly, never better, angel. Only, I think we should we get a bite to eat?"

Aziraphale smiled. "Yes. I thought I saw a lunch special across the street of Osso Bucco. I adore Osso Bucco."

"Me too."  
________________________________________

The Osso Bucco was passable, as was the wine, though Aziraphale transformed the latter straight away into something much more befitting of two supernatural beings. This particular frivolous miracle was worth the frivolity.

The company, however, was divine. Or hellish.

Either way, it was really, really interesting.

"I know it's been a long day with a lot of questions already," Crowley said, his speech slurring a bit. "But there's one thing I'd still like to know, angel. What the hell are you going to do with that manuscript? You can't really still be planning to turn it over to the Archwanker Gabriel!"

"Part of me would like to give it to Beelzebub, for all the good it will do either one of us," Aziraphale answered, also slurring.

"Well… we could just keep it. Or you could. In your book shop, I mean. You could just tell both sides we failed to find it."

"I could. But that's a pretty big burden, having something like that lying about. Just ask Anathema."

"Your job, for six thousand years, has been to oversee the blessings of mankind. And you're worried about keeping track of a stack of papers?"

"That was a cumbersome job, but this is something else. Knowing what's to come, and trying to work out what to do about it… a whole different Cricket match."

"A whole different ballgame, you mean? Yeah, well, I guess you're not wrong. So what do we do? Or you… what do you do? It's your bloody book."

"I don't know," Aziraphale said, sighing, worriedly. "The right thing to do would be to just give it to Gabriel."

"Aw, bugger the right thing!"

"Crowley, truth be told, there's something else that worries me more than what to do with Mistress Nutter's manuscript."

"What's that?"

"It's the big black lie you told Beelzebub."

"I told you – I am not the one who told that lie!"

"No, but they have this awful theory, and you didn't bother to disabuse them of it. You let them think it was true, and that you're part of it! You know very well that neither of us is a thing belonging to a Third Domain of some sort, that I'm still an angel, and you're still a demon. To what lengths will they go to find out more? What will happen if they, I don't know, misinterpret some evidence?"

Crowley sighed. "I guess I didn't think it through," he admitted. "I just wanted bloody Posterity to have its bloody book."

"Well, I think that after our Tadfield stint is over, we should be especially vigilant. We should look for signs that hell are poking about, trying to punch holes in reality, or the like."

"Yeah, you're probably right. What do we do if they start doing that?"

"I have absolutely no idea," Aziraphale said, worry colouring his face. "But, we worked out how to thwart the apocalypse, we can work this out, too. If it comes up."

"Oof. It's gonna be a weird few years, I think."

Aziraphale held up his glass. "To Days to Come."

Crowley smiled, clinked his glass, and they both sipped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's the end of "Days to Come." However, in the next couple of days, I will post the beginning of a story called "The Third Domain," which is a sequel, and will follow our ineffable pair into the next phase. The next phase will include adorable domesticity, incredible sadness, humor, and, oh yeah... a few forays into physical love. (Wink.) I hope you'll follow me there!
> 
> I also hope you'll leave a comment here... I have received FOUR comments only thus far, and I would definitely love to have more! If you've been reading, I think it's only fair to take a minute and drop me a line, eh? Otherwise, why would we bother being on a forum that allows for two-way communication? *shrug* Just a thought. :-)
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading, and I hope you've enjoyed "Days to Come."


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